Dal Segno Al Fine
by Riene
Summary: In 1920 France, the widowed Christine de Chagny returns to Paris. E/C. Complete/
1. Chapter 1 Prelude

**A/N** —Dal Segno Al Fine (D.S al Fine) is a term used in music, meaning "to go back to the sign, and then play until the end." In other words, to return to the past and go forward.

In 1920 France, the widowed Christine de Chagny returns to Paris.

This is the first of what I think will be a 5-6 chapter sequel to the ALW musical story. It's an unusual POV, I know. Yes, you'll see another of our old friends.

Please read and review. :)

~Riene

* * *

Prelude

2017  
Riene

The flowers glowed yellow against the snow in the last rays of the winter sunlight. Yellow flowers, always his favorites. Roses, jonquils, lilies…warm yellow, warm as his love had been.

She rose, kissing her fingertips and brushing them lightly across the stone. Raoul, Comte de Chagny, beloved husband and father. It was still so hard to imagine her Raoul, friend and lover, husband and companion of so many years, still and silent beneath the cold earth.

Behind her a slim form stepped forward, an arm slipped supportively through her own. "Come, Mother," a voice said gently.

She turned. Sophie's blue eyes regarded her with worry. Christine smiled and squeezed her daughter-in-law's fingers reassuringly. "Yes, It's getting chilly," she murmured. Stepping carefully over the rough patches of late-winter snow and ice, slowly the two made their way back toward the gates, giving one more farewell glance to a second stone. Etienne de Chagny, August 1892-April 1917. In Memorium. But unlike his father, Etienne did not rest here. He lay somewhere near the Aisne River, with his comrades. Etienne, their youngest son.

Deep purple shadows lay across the rutted road and over mounded earth, as they walked carefully among the silent stones of the parish graveyard, and together approached the waiting car and began the journey home. Home, to Chagny.

The vast, sprawling Chagny estate had somehow survived the Great War, though many of its occupants would never return to these peaceful golden fields and quiet lanes. Many of the men who had lived in the cottages and worked the land lay buried now in other fields, harvested by the great Reaper who took a generation of young men in their prime.

Among those men had been the youngest son of the family who had owned this small section of France for generations, Etienne, who had left his dreams and studies at university to join the War in the medical service. Philippe, the eldest, had returned from his command, an older, wiser, more somber man than he had left. Her beloved Raoul, deemed too old to serve, had taken a chill one winter night during his endless rounds of duties on the estate, a chill that developed into a virulent strain of pneumonia and taken his life. In a way the War had taken the daughters of the estate as well, for Genevieve had married a Canadian soldier and moved to Nova Scotia, and Adelle had married an American and now lived in Virginia. Both girls were settled and happy, and Phillipe's wife Sophie had since produced a son. If Christine read the signs adeptly, another child was on the way.

The Renault slid smoothly to a stop beneath the porte-cochère and the driver handed the ladies out. Christine patted the car on its shining fender as she waited for Sophie to alight, a habit she had long ago picked up from Raoul, who had loved their cars as he had loved their carriage horses.

Emile swung open the great door and stood, waiting as they passed. Christine folded her pale grey leather gloves neatly together and laid them on the console table, turning so the elderly servant could assist her in removing the heavy dark coat, then unwound the soft cashmere scarf and dropped it on the table as well. "Tea is ready in the parlor, Madame de Chagny," he informed her.

Crossing the entry hall and parlor, Christine held her hands out to the crackling blaze, enjoying its cheerful warmth. Behind her, Sophie came into the graceful room and sat wearily on the sofa, fanning herself slightly, despite the winter day. Christine smiled to herself, remembering her own exhaustion and being overly-warm while expecting. Moving to the sideboard, she lifted the heavy silver teapot with its family crest just as Philippe strode into the room.

"Tea, Philippe?"

"Yes, please. Sophie?" He glanced as his pale and perspiring wife with concern. She waved away the offer and he sat beside her, gently patting her hand. "Perhaps you should lie down?"

The tall young woman sat up straighter and tucked a wisp of pale brown bobbed hair back behind her ear. "I'm fine, Philippe. Don't fuss so."

Christine handed her eldest son a cup and lowered herself gracefully onto an end chair. "You might consider relaxing those stays, my dear." She smiled at her daughter-in-law over the rim of the cup, who blushed.

Philippe took a sip and balanced the saucer on his knee. "Mother, we really must talk. Are you still intending to go through with your plans to return to Paris?"

"Oh yes," Christine said calmly. "With the girls gone and you back and settled, it's time I stepped out of your way. Everything here is running smoothly, and I have friends in Paris; I shan't be lonely or bored there."

"But Mother, you don't have to do this," Philippe raked a hand through his dark hair, a gesture so similar to his father's that Christine inadvertently smiled.

"I know I don't, but I want to."

"You can take the car and drive down at any time. Even spend the night in the flat if you wish…but live there?"

Christine sighed. Even now, she could not explain that the immense stone house, a showplace in this region of France, had never really felt like home. For weeks after Raoul had brought her to the chateau, she had been convinced their marriage was a mistake, that she could never fulfill the role of mistress of this vast manor. She had learned to play the role admirably, but a role it had been. Only when alone with her husband and later on, their children, had she been able to feel that Christine Daae, the child who had wandered two countries with her father, the girl who had danced in the corps de ballet, the young woman who had once been praised for her golden voice and beauty, still existed.

"I shall be fine, Philippe," she said firmly and Philippe subsided, knowing that tone well.

"Stephan shall miss his grandmamma so," Sophie put in, undeterred, and Christine winced.

"And I shall miss him, but I am keeping my rooms here, and will return often to visit. Stephan will enjoy coming to see me in Paris, as well."

"But it is so dangerous! All those immigrants and refugees!"

"And I myself was once one," Christine said gently. "As you just said, don't fuss so. I will be fine."

* * *

Four days later, Christine shut the door behind her with a sigh, and taking two steps forward, spun around giddy with excitement. Philippe had watched his mother with amusement throughout dinner, her large blue eyes sparkling, watching everything, and leaned forward, squeezing her fingers. "You are enjoying this far too much, Mother," he smiled. "I can see you have been pining for Paris."

Now the long tan car, Philippe, Sophie, and an excited Stephan had departed back to the estate, and she was alone at last.

The flat consisted of several rooms, owned by the Chagny family for decades. They had been purchased for the family to utilize during their visits to the capital, for the elder Louis de Chagny had been involved in both politics and business, and his family had patronized the arts. Philippe and Raoul had both lived here as young men, and Christine herself briefly after her marriage. There was a local woman who came in for daily help with the cleaning, cooking, and shopping, and Philippe had sent staff two days prior to air out and prepare the rooms, to purchase food and coal, and bring up her trunks.

Christine threw open the windows and leaned out into the cold winter air. Below her the city buzzed, alive with theatres, dance halls, motion picture palaces, cafes, markets, department stores. A new radio had been installed, and a phonograph, a present from Philippe, awaited in the salon. Somewhere to the north was Le Bourget Airport, with its bright lights sweeping across the night sky. The Eiffel Tower, lit and lofty above the landscape, was just visible from the other windows.

Philippe would no doubt be horrified if she attended any event at the music halls, but there were more genteel forms of entertainment available. In the mean time, there was shopping to do and old friends to see. Some weeks back she had alerted friends of her impending move, and they had responded with invitations to tea, to dinner, to the ballet and opera. Christine clasped her hands tightly, feeling that surging course of adrenaline through her veins again. The Opera Garnier. She would simply have to find a schedule of the productions and attend one.

She bustled about the flat, settling personal items and unpacking the last few things from her trunks. Gowns and clothing hung in the wardrobes, the bed was freshly made up. Cook had sent a basket of bread, coffee, tea, and fruit for breakfast. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, the latest newspapers awaited on the table. An invitation to attend a dress show and have coffee afterwards waited on the graceful correspondence desk. Christine smiled with pleasure. Paris alone was a new adventure, and if she tired of it, she could always return to Beauvais and the estate.

* * *

The noise of the street below woke Christine long before the sun, the sounds of a bustling city waking and going about its business, so different from the quiet countryside. Dressing quickly, she pinned up her long curls, breakfasted, and hastened out into the chilly streets. Within minutes a passing omnibus had taken her to her first destination.

At the end of the avenue the Opera rose against the grey sky, green dome and gilded statues, myriad windows, the stairs obscured by passing omnibuses and autos, the usual bustle of people walking by. Christine paused across from the great structure for only a moment, ducking into the small café opposite. The steamy interior smelled of newsprint and coffee, sweet buns and damp wool overcoats. Smiling, she ordered a café au lait and seated herself by the window.

Behind her two young girls were giggling and chattering, and in her nostalgia Christine was swept back in time, hearing again Meg's sweet voice. Dear Meg, always possessing the latest gossip, her long blond curls pulled up as befitting a young lady, the two young dancers wondering if either would ever become a coryphée, pooling their coins for a treat. Meg, who had achieved her dream of becoming a soloist, who had danced until she caught the eye of a visiting young Central European nobleman. It was still so hard to imagine her friend, the sprite who had danced upon her toes, as a grandmother. Christine sighed, for there had been no correspondence from the friend who had been close as a sister since before the War, and her heart ached to think she might never know their fate.

Coffee finished, Christine gathered gloves and hat and marched up the stairs of the Palais Garnier. As always, the opulent grand staircase took her breath away, though they had attended many performances over the years. In the subscriber's office, she was introduced to Jacques Rouché, the new Director.

"Madame de Chagny and her husband were long-time subscribers and Patrons of the Opera," the manager hastened to explain, and M Rouché turned to her with a smile.

"Perhaps I could suggest to you a behind-the-scenes tour of the Opera?" he offered.

With a bemused smile, Christine took his arm, accepting the offer for what it was. For three quarters of an hour M Rouché escorted her about the back stairs and passages, and even across the great stage. Familiar aromas of greasepaint, plaster, wood, canvas, and rope assailed her senses, and for a few wistful minutes Christine watched the corps de ballet in their daily practice. Not once did she note a familiar face or voice. M Rouché proved to be a delightful guide, dispensing anecdotes and humorous stories, facts, and history as they walked the seemingly endless corridors, even once passing a familiar hallway. The old dressing room at the corner was now a storeroom, she noted sadly, but said nothing as they passed it. Did anyone even know its secrets and stories now?

"I hope you enjoyed the tour, Madame de Chagny," he said once they had reached the end of the Grand Foyer. "Shall we be seeing you and M de Chagny in attendance this spring?" Unaware of his faux pas, he beamed hopefully at her.

"My husband passed on some years ago," she corrected him kindly, then patted his arm reassuringly. "but I myself would enjoy attending the ballet and opera again."

M Rouché bowed over her hand. "Please forgive me. I hope I have not caused you any distress."

Christine gently freed her hand and smiled again. "No offense was taken, M Rouché; you had no way of knowing. Now, shall we see if our old box seats might still be available?"

Tickets purchased for the upcoming ballet and symphony, Christine stepped aboard another omnibus. St. Thomas Church was located in one of the older sections of town. A smaller, parish church, it had been where Dr. and Mama Valerius had attended, and later she had continued visiting sporadically throughout her years at the Opera. Though the Chagny family had pew space at one of the larger cathedrals, the small welcoming building was still her choice during the rare times when Christine had found herself alone on a Sunday in Paris.

Minutes later she was sitting in the rector's office, refusing a cup of tea and handing him the sealed envelope of transference from the church back at the estate. The priest, middle-aged thin man with a stoop, pushed glasses down his nose and skimmed the letter. "…member in good standing, I see," he smiled. "Welcome back, Madame de Chagny." He clasped her fingers warmly. "I hope we shall see you this and every Sunday." He glanced down at the letter again and tapped it with a long finger. "I see you were a member of the choir at your old parish. Would you have any interest in continuing here? I know the Director is down a voice or two and has been searching for new blood."

Christine took a deep breath. "I'd be delighted to audition," she said warmly. "As you know, I once sang in the Opera, and though I'm hardly stage quality any more, I do so still love it."

"Merely having someone who can read music and sing on pitch will be a blessing, I'm sure," the priest smiled. "I shall introduce you to M Canton. He can give you far more information than I."

They discussed the other workings of the parish and her tithe, before taking a brief walk around the building. The stone church had suffered during the war, for though it had never taken a direct strike, buildings nearby had. Slates on the roof had been destroyed, and once exploding debris and shock from a nearby bomb had taken down a wall. Several Parisians sheltering from the raid had been injured or killed that day, she remembered sadly.

"We have many needs about the parish, Madame de Chagny," Father Montserrat sighed. "I hope we may count on your support."

"Of course. I'll see you on Sunday." Christine nodded pleasantly and departed.

* * *

All in all, it had been, she reflected, a good day. Luncheon on her own, then a meeting with friends for a dress show, which turned into a dinner invitation as well. Jeanette and Henri Sellens were long time friends of Raoul's, as Henri was an investment partner, and it had been pleasant to see them again. Afterwards, Christine had spent the evening with a glass of wine, listening to a radio programme, feet propped up before a small and cheerful blaze. She'd written a short note to reassure Sophie and Philippe, then settled into bed. Her last thoughts, before drifting to sleep, were that Raoul would be proud of her.

* * *

It's different, I know. What do you think?

~R


	2. Chapter 2 First Movement

**A/N** —Thank you so much for your interest and reviews on this story! In answer to the questions, Christine is in her early to mid fifties here. Yes, I'm playing with the canon timeline just a little bit. Christine wasn't worried about returning to the Opera House as the events with Erik had been nearly thirty years in the past, and Raoul was a "get back up on the horse" type man. Christine also believed Erik dead, so after a few years, they returned often to take in the ballet or other shows.

Why return to Paris? I think Christine was just wanting a change. The war and rationing had been so difficult, and the estate echoed with the memories of Raoul and their son. Paris was a hotbed of excitement and new developments during the post-Great War years, and would have been somewhat familiar to her. She also had friends there.

No, this is not my modern AU; that story is most definitely set in the 21st century. I'm working on it—up to Chp 26 at this point. Yes there are a couple more _Scrapbook_ pieces, but I'm hesitant to post them as they really *are* scraps, and one is definitely M rated. This story was demanding to be told, and so…

On to Chapter 2!

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 2-First Movement  
Riene, 2017

Slowly Christine found a rhythm for her days in Paris. The church choir and charity work took up some small amount of time, and she had regular luncheon dates with friends, who soon swept her into supporting their various causes.

One dreary afternoon the first week of February Philippe called to inform her that he would be heading into Paris with Sophie the following day, and would she care to join them for dinner? Happily, she accepted.

"Good," replied Philippe's deep voice over the telephone line. "Dress well!"

It seemed a good opportunity to wear her new gown, a Jacques Doucet creation of champagne-colored silk, beading, and embroidery. Christine pinned up her long curls and after a moment's thought, added Raoul's delicate diamond drops to her ears and dabbed on a bit of perfume. _It's always better to be overdressed than under_ , she reminded herself wryly. Promptly at 7:00 the sleek tan Renault pulled up outside of the flat. Descending the stairs, Christine nodded pleasantly to the driver and Philippe kissed her hand.

"Mother, you look splendid. I shall have the two best looking ladies in Paris at my table tonight." He himself was looking rather dashing in a new single-button dinner jacket and she told him so.

"We are going to Maxim's!" Sophie gleefully announced as soon as Christine had settled into her seat. She wore a fluid columnar ensemble of pleated cream silk and beading that somewhat hid her pregnancy.

"Maxim's? Really, Philippe."

The young man leaned against the leather upholstery and laughed. "Don't worry, Mother, we can afford it. We are celebrating a bit tonight, and I've been promising Sophie something decadent for a while."

"While I could still enjoy it," Sophie looked adoringly at her husband and Christine had to smile, and the two women fell to admiring each other's gowns.

Maxim's, with its carved wood façade, stained glass, velvet, gilding, potted palms, and coolly superior staff, was as delightful as they'd heard. Sophie ordered a lobster and Philippe raised his eyebrows. "It may disagree with you, darling."

Sophie waved a fork. "It will do as I say. It is lobster I want and lobster I shall have!"

Christine squeezed her daughter-in-law's fingers. "I am sure she'll be fine." Resigned, Philippe placed their orders.

The conversation was light and happy that evening. Philippe's investments were doing well, and news from the estate was discussed with avid interest. Sophie was captivated with Christine's description of a Women's Suffrage rally she had attended, and demanded to know all of the details. Had Christine really heard Cécile Brunschvicg speak?

"Mother, do not tell me that you're going to become one of those tiresome suffragettes," Philippe said wickedly. "I shall have to bring you back to Chagny."

Sophie rounded on her husband hotly. "And why not! Your sisters can vote! Women in England have the right! But why not we women of France!" She turned back to Christine. "I thought the Chamber of Deputies had passed the bill?"

"Yes, but the Senate has again blocked its passage. We will persevere, Sophie," she smiled, as Philippe winked, amused.

Sophie caught the glance then slapped him lightly with her gloves. "Oh! You! You are impossible."

Philippe raised his glass. "Nonsense. I think you would make a splendid _citoyenne_ , my love. And Mother too, of course."

Realizing she was being teased, Sophie gave up and demanded to know which dress shows Christine had attended, and announced that she was longing for a gown by Charles Worth or Jeanne Paquin, as soon as she got her figure back. For several minutes, the ladies animatedly discussed the merits of couture by Lanvin, Chanel, and Sœurs, as Philippe made a show of shuddering at the expense.

"I see your relocation is going to cost me," he said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. "But I must say, it seems to agree with you. You have roses on your cheeks again, Mother."

Christine smiled. "I am enjoying it."

"We do miss you, though, Mother," Sophie put in earnestly. "Would you consider coming back with us for a visit? If you've nothing of importance here? Stephan would love to see you again." She looked imploringly at Christine.

"If you will send the car for me Sunday afternoon, then yes. I can stay for a few days."

* * *

Father David Montserrat paused in passing the north transept. There, yes, he was sure, it was the same man, sitting motionless in the shadows. He'd first noticed that solitary figure a fortnight ago, and on each subsequent Tuesday, the day the local string quartet practiced. The priest was glad of the small group of musicians bringing some life to the quiet church, and this lone listener was one of several who must have come to hear them play.

Quietly Father Montserrat approached and sat in the same row of chairs, a few seats over, bowing his head and waiting. The solitary figure tensed but did not move, and thus the tired priest was able to observe him. A tall man, terribly thin and stooped over, elbows resting on bony knees, turning an ebony stick in his hands, a Homburg lying beside him. He wore a heavy black coat and gloves, with a muffler well wrapped around his face, for the interior of the stone building was cold on this bleak winter evening.

The man straightened, hands on his knees, and the priest sensed his sudden tension. "Good evening, my son," he said quietly. "If my presence disturbs you I shall go back up front. I merely wished to meet a fellow music lover, for I assume that is why you are here."

The black-muffled figure turned and regarded him warily from deeply set, amber gold eyes, eyes like those of a hawk or falcon. He reached one long hand up and unwrapped a portion of the scarf, revealing his mouth and a few strands of thin, iron-grey hair.

"Yes," he murmured. "They are uncommonly fine, are they not?"

They listened in silence another moment, before the priest ventured another comment. "I prefer Vivaldi myself, but Mendelssohn is also pleasant."

"Indeed."

"Would you be a musician yourself, sir, or merely a music aficionado like myself?"

The deep-set eyes shut briefly. "I was, once, yes. It has been…some years since I had access to an instrument."

The priest nodded sympathetically. "The War, yes."

"Yes." _Among other things._

They were silent another long minute, listening to the interweaving melodies of the strings, before the stranger spoke again, his voice wistful. "I would have liked to have heard the organ once more, but…." He gestured at the great damaged instrument.

Father David sighed. "Yes. But. I fear there is no money to repair or replace it. Not now when there are so many other pressing needs of the parish."

The quartet lowered their bows then began to chatter amongst themselves, gathering sheet music and carefully returning instruments back to their cases.

"Excellent, gentlemen," Father David called out. "Will we see you next week?"

"Yes, if that is still agreeable?" returned the cellist.

"But of course." He turned back to the silent man, whose eyes were still focused on the shadowy pipes of the once grand organ. "Would you care to see it up close? I warn you, the damage appears much less from here."

The older man rose slowly to his feet, reaching for the ebony stick. "If I may? I might, perhaps…" He bit off the end of the sentence, shaking his head.

They fell into step, the older man walking with a light, almost silent tread as they passed the altar and choir stalls, to the seat of the great organ. The organ chamber itself had long ago been cleared of rubble, but no repair work had been started. From here the damage was easy to see; gouges in the carved woodwork and chips in the ancient stone. Father David stood back, watching as the older man sat gingerly down upon the splintered seat and stared at the smashed and ruined keyboards with something very akin to grief. After a moment he removed one glove, his long fingers looking white and skeletal in the gloom, and reverently touched the row of stops.

"A falling beam struck the console and stones and slates from the roof stuck the back side of the building and the pipe loft. The pipes might be useable, but they are full of debris."

The stranger rose and awkwardly knelt down, running his hands along the side panel and gently removed it, shaking his head. The interior of the console was a tangled mess of bent metal bars, wires, pneumatic tubes, and wood splinters. He looked upward at the silent rows of pipes. "I might be able to offer some small assistance, if you would permit?" he began. "I know something of organs, though I am no professional. It…grieves me to see it so."

Father David sighed. "I would have to get permission from the vestry, but I see no reason why you could not attempt some repairs. We have, of course, no money to pay you for your efforts, but there is a small fund that could be used for materials. There are even tools you might find useful; our sexton left behind a workroom on the lower level."

The stranger dusted his hands and rose carefully to his feet. "Might I see this workroom?"

* * *

The omnibus was drafty and overly full, with people pressed on all sides. Evening fell early this far north in the winter, and the tired city workers, shoppers, and visitors were all anxious to return home to warm firesides.

Thursday night choir practice was one of her favorite parts of the week. The parish church choir held just eight other people, and each voice was important. The director, a M Gerald Canton, was a brusque, impatient man, anxious to move on to better things, but he coaxed a unified sound from the small group, and occasionally harmony, counterpoint, and descant, and accompanied them on an upright piano. He spared her a brief glance.

"Good evening, everyone, and Madame de Chagny, welcome back. Hymn 135 everyone, please." He raised his hands.

For over an hour the choir rehearsed music for the Sunday service, and then M. Canton threw his hands in the air, hearing voices beginning to crack or grow rough, and seeing eyes surreptitiously glancing at watches. "That is enough for tonight. Wrap your throats well before you go out into the cold air. I'll not have anyone coming down ill before this weekend." He pulled shut the cover over the keyboard and rose, irritably.

The small group of men and women chaffed hands and began gathering scattered possessions, tying on scarves and hoods, pushing cold hands into coat sleeves. "I do hope they get the heating fixed soon," fretted one of the women. "We're as likely to freeze in here as on the streets!"

Gerald Canton rolled his eyes. "I am sure it will be warm enough on Sunday. Now don't forget to be here by 10:00 in order to robe!"

From somewhere in the building a door opened and a strong draft drew about the room, ruffling sheet music. Christine and Gerald scrambled after the errant sheets, re-stacking and arranging them neatly.

She looked up in time to catch a glimpse of a figure swiftly crossing the distant end of the building and disappearing through a side door. A man, tall and thin, his rapid stride causing the sides of his long black coat to flare around his legs. A black hat and muffler prevented her from seeing his face. Christine staggered, one arm flying out to catch herself on the back of a pew. Gerald looked down, confused and concerned.

"Madame de Chagny? Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

She took a deep breath, staring down the darkened passage. "I...for a moment I thought I had…but no, it's impossible." Shakily she stood up, and forced a laugh. "I'm fine, M Canton, thank you."

* * *

 _Those long, tapering fingers slid from hip to breast, lightly skimming her throat, as his glorious dark amber voice sang in her ear, surely the most erotic and enticing thing she'd ever felt. He grasped her shoulders and turned her body flush against his, hard planes and angles, not an ounce of excess flesh anywhere on him, and an additional burning hardness that made her flush, but her voice rang out, crystalline and clear, a harmony of notes rising pure and powerful to the heavens from that underground cavern._

 _Eyes, burning gold from the myriad candles stared down into hers, longing and fervent. "Oh my Christine, you are a goddess…"_

 _She woke, shaking, her throat tight and aching from unshed tears, torn as always between fear and a soul-deep craving she did not wish to examine._

" _Christine?" The voice, deep and rough from sleep, summoned her back to reality. This reality. "Another nightmare?"_

 _She lay back down, curling her chilled body around his warm, solid flesh. "No," she said softly, "just a dream. I'm sorry to have awoken you."_

" _S'all right," he murmured, and lifted a heavy arm to pull her close. His rough chin rubbed against her bare shoulder. "Sleep…"_

The dream morphed into the sudden reality of her darkened room. Christine blinked back tears, then gave up, feeling them run from under her lids and soak into the smooth cotton pillowcase. Oh Raoul. Would she never stop grieving his loss? And Erik…how long it had been since she had dreamt of him, his seductive velvet voice calling her from behind the mirror. Her dark angel, her maestro, lost below the Opera House catacombs in the madness and chaos of that fateful night. They had never found him, or if they had, Raoul had kept her from learning of it. As she had so many times over the years, Christine whispered a prayer that he had lived and somehow found happiness. Pulling the bedclothes up around her shoulders again, she drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please review :)

~R


	3. Chapter 3 Entr'acte

**A/N** —In answer to questions, no, Erik did not know that Christine was at the church. He arrived that night after choir rehearsal was over and did not hear any of them signing. Christine doesn't realize it's Erik, either, as she only caught a glimpse and the man's black coat triggered a memory. The dream was a dream and memory both—she was remembering in her dreams of another time she had dreamed of Erik and woken in bed with Raoul.

 _ **Entr'acte**_ -Italian: _intermezzo_ , noun-an interval between two acts of a play or opera, a dance, piece of music, or interlude performed between two acts of a play

In other words, the calm before the storm.

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 3-Entr'acte  
Riene, 2017

Friday

If it were not for coffee, some mornings would be much more difficult, Father Montserrat reflected dourly. He took another sip of the black, steaming beverage, grateful for the warmth on his cold fingers. Last night's vestry meeting had been contentious over how to allocate their meager funds, and he'd had to intervene, raising his quiet voice. He rubbed his chin. Tempers were always shorter during the winter months, but his ploy had been successful. Forcing the wealthier patrons to meet in the freezing building had orchestrated his desired outcome; they had finally voted the funds to replace the ancient and now nonfunctional heating system.

This month had brought other blessings to his parish, and for this he had said a prayer of thanksgiving. Surprisingly, the widowed Madame de Chagny was taking an active interest in his little parish, even having donated to several causes. She'd taken her place in the choir on the second Sunday after her arrival, and her smooth, glorious soprano voice had been a thing of beauty to hear. One of the other ladies of the choir had interested her in the parish outreach program, and Madame de Chagny now stopped by the little church twice a week to help in the soup kitchen or assist with the immigrants. Surprisingly, for a woman of her obvious class and wealth, it seemed Madame de Chagny spoke fluent Swedish and a small amount of both Italian and German.

The other blessing had come in the form of a curious tall, gaunt elderly man with an interest in repairing the old and badly damaged church organ. The good Father thought his heart would stop the day the man began to climb the scaffolding, but said nothing after a glance of amused condescension from the man's oddly-colored golden eyes. He was in the process of removing and cleaning each rank of metal pipes, wooden flues, and reeds. Strangely, the priest knew no more about the musician than he had that first day, save his given name, Erik. The man kept most of his face covered with either a thin leather mask or strips of bandaging, but was soft-spoken, unfailingly courteous, and knowledgeable about music.

* * *

In the cramped workroom below the church, Erik released the slender metal pipe from its brackets and tilted it sideways, sighting along the hollow tube. As usual, it contained bits of rubbish and dirt. Gently blowing on it, he tipped the far end toward the wastebasket.

The church sexton had apparently been a busy man, for the workshop contained an eclectic variety of tools, custodial supplies, and a stock of metal and wood scraps. A faded calendar on the wall gave sad testament as to his predecessor's fate, and Erik had removed it somberly. The workspace appeared to have been created from the end of a former hallway, closed off and made into a workroom. A long bench ran along the left-hand side with two hanging lamps above and a set of shelves opposite. A dusty transom window high up on the wall was at street level but was banked with snow and let in little light. A broken-down armchair sagged beneath it. Erik had spent an evening cleaning and arranging the dark, confined space to his satisfaction before beginning to work on the organ.

The great instrument's chimes, harp, and harp resonators appeared undamaged, as did most rows of pipes. The foot pedal damage was cosmetic and easily repaired with the proper wooden pieces.

No, it was the keyboards and this side of the pipe loft that had sustained the most damage during the war. Erik found himself humming contentedly as he gently brushed the interior of the metal tube clean, removing moisture and dirt. For some years his hands had been idle, and he had found himself craving another project to keep his mind occupied. Though far more grand in scale, this organ was essentially very similar to his own, the one built and destroyed so many years ago. The electrical bellows apparatus was fascinating; he would have liked to have tried assembling his own, however, that was a dream which would never come to fruition.

The rank of pipes cleaned, Erik wrapped them in a heavy oilskin and tied the edges securely. The easiest way to raise and lower the heavier individual or ranks of metal and wooden pipes was via a pulley system he'd devised, bringing them up to the choir loft where they could then be passed through the door-hatch and back into the pipe chamber, but these were small enough to simply carry. He'd finally completed this chest of pipes and would begin next on the tiny flutes and reeds.

* * *

Saturday

Though her brief sojourn back to the countryside and Chagny had been pleasant, Christine had been happy to return to Paris. It had taken surprisingly little time to feel comfortable in the flat, that this pleasant neighborhood was now home. The 8th arrondissement was home to an interesting variety of people, bankers, old aristocracy, and young entrepreneurs, and boasted a school, businesses, churches, parks, and several monuments. Shopkeepers greeted her by name, and more than one café or restaurant would send over a meal if asked.

On this bitter February evening, Christine readied herself for a night out. Henri and Jeanette were sending a car around for her in an hour with an invitation to the ballet and dinner afterwards. She had visited the hairdresser this morning and wore the Jacques Doucet gown again, hesitating only a moment before donning her sensible dark blue wool coat. She hated to crush the gown, but February in Paris was February in Paris, and it would never do to catch pneumonia, as dear Raoul had done.

Henri was waiting at the base of the elevator and escorted her to the car. Jeanette Sellens introduced Christine to the other occupant of the Peugot, a Mrs. Ashworth from the United States, who was visiting Henri's mother.

"They met while Mrs. Ashworth was doing her Grand Tour, when Mother Sellens was a girl, and have seen quite a lot of each other since," Jeanette explained. "We would have brought her along tonight also, only she is feeling unwell."

"And I do appreciate you including an old woman." Mrs. Ashworth's blue eyes twinkled and Christine found herself smiling back. The visiting guest wore her iron-grey hair short and diamonds sparkled on her hands. Though American, her French was fairly good and Christine found herself liking the older woman.

Once in their box, Henri helped the ladies off with their coats and Christine settled her velvet wrap around her shoulders, looking about with interest at the people in the boxes, stalls, and balconies. As always, she caught her breath and felt that flutter of excitement when the orchestra struck the opening notes and the house lights dimmed. Before them the stage filled with dancers, and as she lost herself in the swirl of the music, Christine wished again that she could look into the wings and see the imperious figure of Madame Giry, and hear once more that acerbic voice commenting on the dancers. It was truly a pity the regal ballet mistress had not lived to see the 20th century and its new designs, new choreography. Somehow, Christine felt, that daunting lady would not have approved.

The curtain fell to thunderous applause as the lights came up and Henri stood.

"Intermission," he said unnecessarily. "I'm going to stretch my legs. Would you ladies care for anything? Champagne? An ice? A cup of punch? No? Then I shall return shortly." He nodded and left the box.

"I am afraid Henri only tolerates the ballet for my sake," Jeanette said merrily. "You seemed quite entranced, though, Christine."

She smiled. "Oh yes. The ballet will always be dear to me. I danced here, once long ago, you know."

Jeanette's brown eyes grew round. "Did you? How droll."

Margaret Ashworth leaned forward. "Do please tell us about it, Madame de Chagny, if you would?" she asked in her quiet, well-bred voice. "It looks quite fascinating from here."

Christine smothered a smile, remembering well the pain of blistered toes and of swollen, aching feet thrust into an ice-bath. "I can assure you it is very hard work. What looks like an effortless jeté has only been earned by weeks of practice and blistered feet! But I do miss it, sometimes," she added. "I still have my last pair of satin slippers, stored in a trunk somewhere."

"My dear, how exciting," Margaret said warmly.

"Christine even met her husband here at the Opera," Jeanette gushed. "He was a patron of the arts then, wasn't he, Christine?"

"Yes."

"It's quite like a Cinderella story, isn't it?" she continued, unaware of her friend's sudden stillness.

Christine glanced toward Box Five, brightly lit and filled with chattering guests. "Quite," she said, and changed the subject.

* * *

Berthe Blosson raised a hand in absent greeting as her top-floor lodger passed by. The elderly man, unfailingly courteous, returned the greeting and continued on up the stairs. Though no one else had been interested in the furnished top floor bed-sit with its leaking trapdoor skylight, single stove, gas ring, and sink, she had been reluctant at first to lease rooms to a man whose face was covered in bandages, but his golden eyes were mesmerizing and his beautiful voice persuasive, and she had agreed. He paid in cash and took the key, returning two days later with a carpetbag, a crate of books, and a violin case. She'd not regretted the decision, for he was quiet and paid promptly each month, yet the sharp-eyed landlady knew little more about her upstairs tenant than she had all those years ago.

He worked as a translator, he'd told her once, by way of explanation of the packages delivered and retrieved by courier. A very few times she'd heard the impassioned strains of the violin. He had added a lock to the door and repaired the leaking skylight, but otherwise kept to himself, no visitors and apparently no family, not unlike the hundreds of others who had been displaced after the war.

Once the door was securely locked behind him, Erik's shoulders slumped in a wave of weariness and he knelt before the stove, stirring up the banked coals. The room was chill from disuse, and he rubbed his aching hands impatiently.

Though far from luxurious, the flat was comfortable and most importantly, private and secure. A single chair and lamp awaited beside a well-filled bookcase, while a worktable and chair sat under the skylight. The far wall served as a rudimentary kitchen, with a sink, gas ring, small icebox, and cabinets. The back room was his bedroom, and there was access to a washroom on the third floor. He had lived in far grander settings, and in much much worse.

With a sigh, Erik began the tedious process of unwinding the strips of linen that covered his face. The soft fabric, though far kinder to his twisted flesh than the series of masks had been, still needed to be removed often to allow the skin to air. He would not be going out again tonight, nor did he expect visitors. Farouk, a great-grandson of one of Khan's friends, had brought by his weekly box of groceries and other necessities two days ago and had also brought up his lodger's allotment of coal. Farouk had proven to be the best errand boy yet, asking few questions and promptly obeying whatever orders Erik barked over the telephone. The installation of said telephone had been the only source of contention between Erik and his landlady, for she had protested the expense and disturbance. Yet for Erik the line had been a godsend, allowing him to conduct business much more easily and privately.

His simple dinner soon over, Erik poured himself two fingers of brandy and reached for the evening paper. It had been another tedious long day in a succession of long days, brightened only by the evening's progress in the organ loft.

* * *

Sunday

Though she had blithely assured her family that there were many activities to keep her amused, it had been, Christine through wryly, as much reassurance for herself as well as them. There were many times the little flat seemed heavy with silence. Tonight was no exception; the very air felt infused with loneliness and solitude. The wireless held no appeal, the gramophone seemed dull, she had read and folded away the evening paper. Christine trailed one hand listlessly along the table as she slowly walked into the salon. A stack of correspondence lay on the dainty corner desk awaiting responses, but her mind felt too empty for cheery, social replies.

Should she return to Chagny? The great estate lay in the peaceful countryside with just as few callers, but there were other voices around, the staff and servants, her family, her grandson demanding attention. With a sigh, Christine pulled back the heavy draperies over the casement windows and looked out.

Across the city, evening streetlights began to dot the landscape with a warm glow. Here and there lights appeared in windows as families and friends gathered. Glumly Christine let the draperies fall back into place, telling herself sternly it was merely a case of _ennui_ and the morning would seem all the brighter for it.

Sunday afternoons were almost always heavy and dull. From his photo on the desk, Raoul's eyes seemed to follow her with worry as she paced about the room.

There had been many times in her life that she had felt displaced. Sweden was now only the dimmest of memories, far back into early childhood, though she could still feel the grief of departure in her heart. After her mother's death, her father had not been able to bear the silence of their house and had sold it, along with the furnishings. Christine could just remember her elderly aunts, the little village church, and the tiny home on a hill. The first months in France had given her this same lost feeling, of a language she could not understand, of customs, sounds, and sights unfamiliar.

There had been too much sadness of loss in her life, her mother, her homeland, her father, the Professor and Mama Valerius, the world of the Opera, her teacher. War losses, her friends, then Raoul and Etienne, the girls marrying and moving so far away. Each time she had raised her chin and bravely faced the next day. This loneliness too was not permanent, she told herself sternly. She would make a cup of tea and find a novel, then perhaps retire early. Tomorrow would bring a new day.

* * *

Monday

The courier departed, the weekend past, and evening services over, Erik wrapped himself against the cold and began the walk to the small church. With the key he'd purloined some weeks ago, Erik unlocked the side door and crossed the nave, mounting the stairs that led to the choir loft. Behind the rows of chairs a carved and paneled wooden screen rose, framing the twenty-five or so visible pipes. The farthest right panel was in actuality a doorway leading to the pipe loft. The remaining pipes, several hundred in number, ran up through this space, held together by bracing unseen from the floor. Slipping through the nearly-hidden hatch, Erik snapped on the light that barely illumined the rickety stairs and closed the door behind him. Carefully he ascended the ladder and braced himself against a railing, reaching for the tools he had left waiting. There should still be time tonight to check the second set of trumpets. The smell of dry and dusty wood surrounded him as gingerly he stepped out onto the ledge. In the summer, the sunlight would creep through those narrow openings above on the roof and it would be stifling. Now it was merely cold, and he blew briefly on his fingers before loosening the first fitting.

Below came a swell of footsteps and voices. From his hidden ledge, Erik peered down, hearing the agitated tones of the choirmaster. Blast and damn, surely not, it was not a scheduled rehearsal night…but yes, behind him came another pattering of feet, then a rush of bodies as the men and women of the church choir hastily assembled their spaces. He sighed. Though they could not see him up here in the dim recesses of the roof joists, he would not be able to leave or freely work. Resigned, Erik folded his arms, leaned against a banister, and waited.

The impatient voice of the choir director drifted upwards against and he braced himself for the onslaught of noise. Yet the voices, unprofessional as they were, held true to tone and time, rendering a pleasant surprise to his ears as they worked through the first hymn.

Then one voice rose above the rest, a counterpoint to the melody, and high upon the scaffolding Erik ceased to breathe. Pain lanced across his chest, constricting his heart, as the crystalline tone of piercing beauty rose. Slightly deeper now, better rounded, a little breathy on the high notes, but the voice he heard in dreams denied, the pure soprano voice of Christine Daae.

* * *

Practice over, Christine slipped into a seat and briefly bowed her head, whispering a prayer for Sophie who was unwell, according to her latest letter. The last few voices died away as the choir shuffled out into the wintery streets. She had gently refused invitations to join the others for a quick meal at one of the cafes before going home, saying simply that she was tired and would be happy to do so another day.

Peace settled on the old building, and in the narthex the heavy thud of the great bronze doors closing echoed throughout the chamber. Christine shut her eyes again, feeling tired.

Though she had sung to her children and in the small local church, the choir at St Thomas was unusually fine and was stretching her voice and her skills for the first time in years. She winced slightly at the strain, thinking she would need to make a tisane or other warm drink upon returning home and keep her throat well covered outside.

From up near the chancel came very quiet footsteps. Curious, Christine raised her head, her breath catching. It was the same man she had glimpsed earlier in the week. Tall, gaunt, in a long dark coat, a hat clutched in one hand, he hurried from the shadows toward the side door. She must have made a sound, for he turned sharply, golden eyes like a falcon's sweeping across the nave and locking on hers. Christine's heart stopped.

"Erik!"

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. They make my day! :)  
~R


	4. Chapter 4 Second Movement

**A/N** —Thank you all for your wonderful comments. You have no idea how they make my day. Also, thank you for pointing out my typos!

No, Erik's temper hasn't cooled off much, but he's learned to control it better. Sometimes.

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 4—Second Movement  
Riene, 2017

"Erik!" Her whisper cut across the silent room and he stopped, as though he felt her words as a physical blow, and slowly turned. His golden eyes were hard, wary. He no longer wore a mask; instead thin strips of linen bandaging covered the right side of his face. The silence hung heavy between them.

Christine had risen, one hand clenching the back of the chair in front of her. Her eyes, those impossibly dark blue eyes, were enormous in her ashen face.

"What do you wish, Christine?" he grated out. Unable to speak, she gestured at the row of chairs, and stiffly, he crossed the length of the nave. In the near-darkness, his silent form disappeared into the shadows behind each stone column, adding to the air of unreality. His ebony stick tapping lightly on the floor, Erik jerked a chair out of alignment and straddled it, his arms crossed defensively on the back.

Christine turned to face him, her face deathly pale. "So it was you, the other night. I thought so. Why did you depart so quickly?"

"You know the reason."

Oh his voice, unchanged through the years, that gloriously smooth, velvet tone, the voice that had called to her beyond a mirror once, taught her, sang to her, the voice that still in the depths of the night whispered her name.

She laid a gentle hand on his bony knee and felt him flinch. "Come back to my flat so we may speak. There is no privacy here, and the hour grows late."

Slowly, he dipped his head. "As you wish." He stood and held her coat, then replaced his hat, angling it to shield the right side of his face. They fell into step, Erik's long legs slowing to accommodate her, and he held the door.

The street was cold, the February wind blustery. At the corner Erik whistled sharply for a cab, and courteously handed her into it, sitting across. He leaned on one elbow, fingers partially across his lips, eyes intense and glowing in the dim streetlights. Christine leaned forward, giving the driver her address, then stared out the window, tears burning hot behind her eyes and heart pounding.

"What of your family?" his harsh voice cut through the darkness. "What will they think when you arrive home with a stranger?"

"There is no one else…I live alone," she said softly.

Alone? He forced his fingers to relax, where they had tightened on one knee. How could she be alone? He stole a glance toward her fingers, but her gloved hands lay quietly in her lap.

 _What was this madness_ , Erik berated himself. No good could come of this chance meeting. Yet here she was, looking unchanged over all of the years, barely any silver in her long dark hair, hair that she thankfully had not cut. Her eyes, those impossibly blue eyes, looked at him with kindness and interest, and held no fear. Dear Christine, always so kind.

The taxi lurched to a stop and they emerged, Christine quickly handing over the small fare. The residential neighborhood was quiet, a tree-lined avenue of well-bred buildings, businesses, and shops. He stood quietly behind her, the wind blowing tightly about their legs as she fumbled with the lock. Up the stairs to the elevator in silence, and once inside the flat Erik stood immobile, seemingly unable to move inside the warmth and peace of the quiet rooms, alone with her.

Christine hung her coat in the entryway and moved to the kitchen, leaving him a few minutes to gather himself. Water for tea, perhaps toast. Cheese? Fruit? Quickly Christine assembled a tray, trembling hands placing small plates, cups, and spoons at ready, then glanced toward the door.

"Erik? Would you see to the fire?"

Finally he pulled the thin leather gloves from his long bony hands and laid them carefully on the sideboard, and hung the black hat and greatcoat beside hers in the hallway. He knelt before the hearth and bent to blow on the embers, pulling apart the banked coals and coaxing them into life. As she busied herself making tea at the gas ring, Erik wandered slowly about the flat, hands clasped behind his back, then pulled aside the curtains to gaze out on the city below. He'd lost none of his silent, commanding presence, she thought, still imperially tall and thin, dressed in black, an incongruous figure in the softly-lit apartment. She noted that he did not touch the piano standing in the alcove.

 _At what point had he stopped wearing the wig_ , she wondered. The few strands of iron-grey hair were combed carefully back across his head. The linen bandages were disconcerting; had he lost the masks, or simply stopped using them? She was not surprised he kept his features covered. Even considering the men with horrific war injuries, Erik's face would still have been shocking.

Christine brought the silver tray to the low pouf near the settee. "Erik?" He dropped the fabric and turned, seating himself carefully on the end chair, an aura of tension in his long, lean body. She indicated the tray with its pastries, fruit, and cheese. "Help yourself." He merely nodded, suddenly exhausted, and reached for the cup she handed him, breathing in the fragrance.

"Russian?"

"I remember you preferred it. I wish I could offer you a lemon slice, but…"

"Thank you," he said softly. "This is more than I ever…thank you." His amber eyes regarded her steadily over the porcelain rim. "I truly did not ever expect to see you again, Christine."

She added a lump of sugar to her own tea, avoiding that steady golden gaze, and sipped the steaming liquid carefully. Erik leaned forward, his head bent, and spoke, his voice barely audible.

"Tell me of yourself? How have you been, these years?"

She leaned her head back against the velvet upholstery and stared at the ceiling. "I hardly know how to begin," Christine whispered. "It seems like yesterday, but it's been what…thirty years?"

"Yes. And there was never a day I did not think of you, prayed that you had forgotten and forgiven me." His voice was soft, but she heard the barely restrained grief heavy in it.

"Erik…I forgave you a long time ago," she said gently. "But forget you? No, I have never done that."

His golden eyes, suspiciously bright, looked up and found hers, and he released a long shaky sigh. "Then I will die a happier man. Thank you, my dear. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I thank you." He sat back and took a sip of tea. "But please, tell me of yourself."

"I married Raoul, as I assume you knew," she said slowly, not wanting to hurt the man opposite. "We moved out to the Chagny Estate, near Beauvais, which he took over after Philippe's death. We had four children. The eldest is married and runs the estate now; they have a son of their own and another child on the way. I had two daughters, both married and living far away, one in Canada and the other in the United States. Our youngest son, Etienne, was killed in action in the War. He was in the medical corps." She fell silent, gazing out the window, unseeing, then took a deep shuddering breath. "Raoul died four years ago, from a brief illness. He was a good man, Erik. A good husband to me and father to his children."

"You must miss him terribly."

"I do." She wiped her fingers across her cheek, and he reached toward her, offering a folded white handkerchief. "I'm sorry. I should be past the tears."

"There is no need to apologize," he said quietly. "I never doubted but that he was a good man and would make you happy."

Christine dabbed at her reddened eyes. "And what of you, Erik? How have you been all these years? Where have you been? What happened…after that night?" Her words hung in the air, weighted with apprehension.

Erik swirled the tea, staring down into the reddish-brown depths, cradling the fragile cup in his long bony hands. "After you…departed…that night, I gathered a few things. I could hear the crowd approaching. I took my violin, my music, and I escaped. There were other hidden chambers below. I had cached blankets, changes of clothing, food, money. I hid myself amongst the passages and sewers for days until they gave up looking for me. After some time, the Persian found me. He convinced me to return with him, and so I did. I stayed with him in his flat for some weeks, but grew restless."

"I had grown tired of living underground, and at any rate there was no home left below the Opera to return to." He rose, leaning one arm on the mantle and staring down into the flames. "I left Paris—left France—for some years. The Netherlands, Belgium, Scandinavia, England. But all I heard was your voice, your voice in the wind of the mountains, in the rippling waters of a secluded valley, in the echoing silence of the great cathedrals. And I longed for home, a home I'd never had, and so I returned."

Oh, his voice, weaving words of poetry around her, magic and music infused in their very essence. Christine kept silent, listening.

Erik knelt and raised the poker, stirring the coals. "I stayed again with the Persian, during his last illness." There was sharp grief in his voice, tangible and raw. "With his dying breath he begged me to return to the world of men. I resisted, until I realized that in some cases it is simply best to hide in plain sight. I took a set of rooms near his and salvaged what I could from…below. Khan had contacts, friends, in the city. He persuaded me to use my old skills to find employment. He was, I think, trying to give me a reason to live." He heard her breath catch, but went on. "Slowly I established a reputation, a good one this time." He smiled wryly into the flames.

"I worked as a translator, for the most part. People began bringing me letters, research, and eventually government work. It is all done by telephone and courier."

He rose and resumed his seat across from the tea table. "I consulted again an architect and engineer. A few of my compositions have been published. I survived." He sighed. "The Daroga…Nadir…passed away many years ago. His manservant returned to the East. I spend my days doing translation work for the government and various businesses, mainly. That is all." He spread his hands. "It is very…mundane, I am afraid." Erik looked up, his golden eyes locking on her deep blue ones. "But I never forgot you, my dear. Never once, in all those days, those years. I begged God above to let you forgive me, to forget me, and find peace. I never intended for Erik to ever disturb you again. You must know that."

"I never knew what had happened to you. I wrote Madame Giry, I searched the papers when I could, but there was never any information." She reached slender fingers toward him, but did not dare touch the silent man across from her. "I prayed that you had found safety and peace…and that you'd forgotten me."

"Oh my dear…how could I?" he murmured. His hand reached out in an elegant gesture, his fingers unfurled near her cheek but he did not touch her.

She struggled for another, safer, topic. "Where are you staying now?"

He shrugged. "As I said, I have rooms here within the city." At her expression, his thin lips twisted. "Did you think I still lived _there_?"

"I did not know what to think," Christine said quietly.

"You thought what I wished you to think, that Erik was dead, and would disturb your life no more. And you did not bother to try to learn otherwise." The turbulent emotions began to writhe from his precarious control.

"How could I have?" she flashed. "I was gone, beyond the city out in the countryside. They did not even allow me to see newspapers for weeks."

"I am sure that was a great comfort to you," he sneered.

She set her teacup down with rather more force than necessary. " _Must_ you be so hateful! I had nightmares— _we_ had nightmares for years afterwards!"

His face was white beneath the bandages. "And that is precisely why I let you go, Christine, why I made no effort to come into your life again. It would have been better for all had I died or disappeared, and God knows I tried. The only things I have ever wanted in life have always been taken from me. But you…you I let go."

Her eyes filled with tears. "But that was the problem, Erik. I was always a thing to you, never a person. I was a voice to be molded, a vessel to be filled with your music. I was never really a person, a woman."

When Erik looked up, his golden eyes were full of grief and anger. "In that you are wrong. You were always a woman to me. I hardly knew how to speak to a woman, and there was no way I could come to you as a man. So I became a ghost, and my failings and my flaws were exacerbated. And when you betrayed me, I was lost. When you left me, I tried to die. What was there left worth living for? Only the Daroga saved me, and many were the times I wished he had not." He rose and moved stiffly to the entryway, gathering his hat and coat, feeling her burning gaze following him.

"Goodnight, my dear. I think it best that I depart, pleasant as this little conversation has been."

She stood, fists clenched. "Erik! Will I see you again?"

He paused at the door. From above the mantle, photos of a happy, smiling family seemed to mock him. "I think not. I would not wish to be responsible for any more…nightmares." He nodded formally and raised the stick in a salute. The door clicked softly shut behind him.

* * *

Please be kind and review.

~R


	5. Chapter 5 Third Movement

**A/N** —Thank you al for the wonderful comments and questions! I think there are 2-3 chapters left for this story. It ended up being a little longer than I'd planned.

Erik working as a translator seems to have surprised several people. I don't think it's completely unrealistic, after all, he would have to do something to support himself eventually (or at least find something to do with his time) and I've always had the head-canon that the Phantom spoke multiple languages from his years of travel and study. It's solitary work; one doesn't need to interact with people, and the telephone and courier services of the time would have made it so much easier for him to avoid the public. Translators were in great demand with so much international business and government and post-war communications being necessary. Also, most of his life was spent out among people, in Persia, traveling, or just on business about Paris, as Leroux tells us, so …it worked for me.

And no, in many ways Erik hasn't changed too much. It's one thing to dream and fantasize, another to be confronted with reality. I'm perfectly certain _I'd_ go into vapor-lock if confronted by Ramin Karimloo in a tux.

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 5—Third Movement  
Riene, 2017

Erik wrapped the woolen scarf well around his face and pulled the hat low. Though he scarcely noticed the freezing air, his fragile skin was vulnerable to the cold and was painfully slow to heal. Head down and bones aching from the damp and icy temperatures, he walked the night-blessed streets toward the lonely rooms where he lived. In no way could those barren rooms be called home.

What had possessed him to answer her, to return with her to her flat? Desperation, perhaps, to think there was one person in the world who did not fear and despise him, who remembered him? A faint hope that perhaps he might yet find peace and companionship?

Exhausted and feeling every one of his seventy-odd years, Erik climbed the flights of stairs to his rooms and poured himself a nightcap. He had sealed his heart years ago, and yet one brief encounter and she was making him raw and vulnerable.

Heart-weary and fighting the stirrings of long-suppressed anger, he lifted the bottle again. It was not long before he was very very drunk.

* * *

There was no card tucked amidst the bouquet of a half-dozen red roses. There was no name, no address, not that she had expected any.

The flowers had been waiting for her the next day, dark red and leaning against the door, their heavy perfume filling the small landing of the top floor flat. Now they drooped gracefully from a cut-crystal vase atop the piano, visible from everywhere in the room. Expensive roses, here in the Parisian winter.

He was gone beyond her reach again. She had no idea where to find him, or if he would even speak to her. _Damn the man_ , Christine thought savagely, wiping her eyes. He had not changed at all in that regard, in his unwillingness to stop and listen.

And yet she was drawn once more to him, to that undercurrent of sadness and the loneliness in his eyes, felt the same desire to touch him, to break through that barrier of pride and arrogance that hid a man she'd only ever caught only glimpses of.

Like her, the years had changed him. Though the mask of indifference was still in place, there was a weariness about him now, not just of passing years, but a resignation in his amber eyes and in the lines on his face. _I am tired of living_ , he had said to her once, his whisper carrying clearly through the tomb-like stillness of those underground rooms. She had been too young then to understand the depth of his pain. They had been on such an unequal footing, thirty years ago, he the wise teacher, her the student, him the all-powerful and feared ruler of the Opera House, and herself, a naïve and lonely girl. Christine's lips curved into a faint smile. They were more matched now, and she knew something of pain as well. She would show him she was not afraid, and had the strength now to stand and face his tempestuous moods, to try to reach the man whose music had captivated her so long ago.

* * *

Erik laid aside the sheet of foolscap and pressed fingers to his tired eyes, finding it increasingly difficult to focus on minor shipping rights issues on that Egyptian canal, much less care. His head throbbed; last night's over-indulgence in spirits had been a mistake he would not repeat.

Casting a sour glance at the other stack of correspondence and an unopened packet from the government liaison office that frequently employed him, Erik pushed it aside irritably and rose, pacing the long narrow room. He'd been a fool last night to allow her to affect him so.

But the woman haunted him, possessed him like some spirit. The faintest brush of her fingertips, her perfume, her voice, each sight and sound branded into his memory with an intensity he could not dismiss, awakening that craving he had deluded himself into thinking he had mastered years ago. Like the morphine he'd once willingly shot into his veins, she was a poison that he knew he would go to again and again until she destroyed him as she had so nearly done before.

* * *

When she'd been made aware of the parish relief efforts, Christine had not intended to become involved in them, not with so many friends clamoring for her contributions to their various causes and activities. She had wondered cynically how many invitations were extended due to her name or wealth and thus far had avoided committing to anything.

Yet late one dreary wet afternoon an elderly woman in a too-small coat stumbled right before her and Christine had hastened to help. The old woman had spoken in Swedish and Christine had answered in kind, guiding her to the lower level where the small church's charitable outreach offices were located. An assortment of activities was underway; a handful of people were beginning the evening's preparations in the kitchen, a small class was receiving instruction in French. Women were sorting donations of clothing while others were setting out chairs and serving coffee. Christine saw her tired charge to a table and brought her a cup of coffee, and the woman gratefully clasped her hands, thanking her tearfully.

No, she had not intended to become involved, but there was something in these desperately poor and lost people that called to her, reminding her of home and of life with her father on the road. A hot meal here, a bed there, perhaps some cast-off shoes for cold and aching feet. All had been impressed on her young mind, and so a few days later Christine de Chagny quietly returned to that cheery and warm atmosphere and had humbly asked how she might be of use.

* * *

With three of the largest pipes now detached and lying on the floor of the nave, the two men paused in their efforts and began to descend the rear ladder. Though the repair of the church organ was not part of his responsibilities, it was not the first time Father Montserrat had found himself lending a hand to various tasks about the building.

"I need to take a break and see to my other duties." The priest wiped the back of one sleeve across his perspiring forehead. "If you are hungry, please, go avail yourself of the food line."

He was not hungry, but perhaps a cup of tea or coffee would not be amiss, and reluctantly, Erik edged across the scaffolding and down the stairs. He had never ventured down to the street side of the building where the post-war relief work was focused; there were too many people, but something hot to warm his hands would be welcome.

The line was mercifully short; a handful of immigrants in shabby coats and worn shoes shuffling through the queue. He took his place at the rear and shook his head at the brawny woman behind the table as she offered a plate of soup and bread, instead reaching for a chipped white mug, wanting only coffee.

And there she was, Christine, wearing a plain dark blue dress, the sleeves rolled up her arms, her graceful neck bent to listen to the halting words of the old man before her, addressing him in her soft voice, first in hesitant German, and then in Italian. German and Italian, the words he had taught her, once long ago in another world, a world of candlelight and music. She had retained the languages, it seemed, though surely she would have had no chance to speak or sing either of them. His heart constricted as she gave the toothless old man a smile of singular sweetness, as he ducked his head, shuffling away. She was beautiful, and he felt a rise of unreasoning anger.

Christine reached automatically for the cup he held out, and then when he did not release it, looked up into his golden eyes and abruptly stilled.

"Erik? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," he hissed. "Why are you here? Doing 'good deeds' amongst the people?"

She flushed and glared. "I volunteer here every week. They needed someone who could speak other languages. Why are _you_ here?" She pulled the mug from his grip and filled it.

Erik raised his visible eyebrow. "I am endeavoring to repair the organ."

She slammed the mug in front of him. "Oh. Doing 'good deeds' I see."

He took the mug in a mocking toast, the anger surging. "Dear Christine. Always the lady of benevolence. How well I remember your pity, your charity," he sneered. As Christine stared at him blankly, he laughed, a short bark of bitterness. "And how quickly you have forgotten, a night that is seared in my memory." He gestured toward his face, and Christine flushed crimson.

"That night…I…that was not charity, Erik," she hissed.

"Then what? Pity? Or did you kiss the monster thinking he would turn into a handsome prince? Oh, no, of course not, for you already had your handsome prince, didn't you?" he scoffed.

"That was not why I kissed you!"

"Then why?"

Why indeed. Vividly that night returned to her, the swirling water, the flickering candles, her own desperation and confusion, Raoul, choking his life out at the end of a rope, and before her, a man twisted by hatred and contorted with grief. Her friend, her angel, her maestro, her teacher, a man she loved and feared in equal measures. His lips, so hard and cold, drawn back in a snarl, and his body rigid in her arms, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, then she kissed him again and those thin lips softened under her own, his hands resting so tentatively on her back, then brushing her hair, the taste of the tears than ran down his face, his breathing shaky and shallow, and then he was thrusting her away, his eyes wild and desperate with an emotion she had never been able to describe.

Why indeed. She took a deep breath. "Erik…"

"Erik!"

They both turned. Father Montserrat was holding out his own mug and smiling. "Have you two met? No? Erik, this is Christine de Chagny; she sings in the choir and helps out around here. Christine, this is Erik…I'm sorry, Erik," he said, suddenly puzzled, "but I don't know your surname."

Christine turned and tilted her head, her eyes malicious.

"Delaunay," he said between clenched teeth. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will get back to work." He raised the mug of scalding coffee again and she nodded stiffly.

"The pleasure has been mine. Good day, M _Delaunay_."

He spun on one heel and was gone, aware of the Father's puzzled glance.

Damn the woman!

* * *

Pacing the salon of her flat that evening, Christine sank down upon the velvet end chair, covering her face. Erik's re-emergence into her life had called forth a swarm of turbulent emotions, conflicted and exciting and infuriating.

Was it only that she had been alone so long now, the years of her widowhood pressing upon her? Or was it Paris, the sights and memories that had flooded her mind since returning? She wanted to touch him, to caress his face, his back, to touch his scalp, his thin hair. Her body remembered the feel of his arms, rough and awkward, holding her, and, she flushed, the feel of his thin cool lips, warming slowly and responding to her own. She placed fingers against her own mouth. What madness was this, thinking of him in such a way? But Christine was a woman now, married and widowed, not an inexperienced girl, and Raoul had taught her of love and of passion. A part of her soul had always responded to Erik's dark allure, and time had made no difference in that desire to know him more intimately. She had enjoyed touching him, feeling his hard muscles bunch under her hand, and instinct told her that despite his rancor he had not been adverse to her presence. But how to convince him to remain?

* * *

The D# wooden pipe was irrevocably destroyed, no amount of 'repair' could be done for it, but Erik was relatively certain he could replace the damaged section above the lip. A supply of poplar wood was easy enough to obtain and the measurements could be copied exactly. Two of the planks lay waiting, smoothly shaped and sanded. The third had been underway when the he'd struck the chisel an angular blow instead of directly on the heel and it slipped.

For a moment he did not even feel the injury, numb and cold as his fingers had gone in the basement workshop, but the sight of his own blood dripping on the tabletop was reality enough. He swore, jerking his hand away from the smooth wood lest it stain, and examined his palm. The wound was deep and bleeding profusely. Cursing, Erik wrapped a nearby rag around the injury tightly and lifted the section, relived to find it had taken no damage. He would attend to the hand and return to this project.

A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight in the old graveyard, and Erik scooped a handful into his palm, letting the cold seep into and numb his flesh. The laceration was beginning to hurt like the very devil, and doggedly, he used the melting flakes to rinse the injury. His handkerchief would have to do for a bandage, and he wound it tightly.

It might be a wiser plan to return the next day to his project. He would get a cup of coffee to warm his stiffened fingers, then go put away the tools.

But even this was not to be. Returning from his grim errand, his hand wrapped now in a clean handkerchief, Erik saw her from across the room, walking amongst the refugees and immigrants, her hair pulled up and an apron covering her wine-red dress. It was too late to simply duck back out the door like a coward. Ignoring her presence he turned away, filling a mug with coffee.

Christine caught barely a glimpse of his thin, dark-clad form as he headed for the doorway. Erik gave her a cool nod of barely civil acknowledgement and made as if to walk past her.

"Erik?" She bit her lip, thinking desperately of something to say, anything to keep him here another minute and not waste this chance encounter.

As he turned back, she caught a glimpse of his hand, wrapped in the blood-stained handkerchief, and gasped. "Erik, you're hurt!"

He pushed the injured limb down into a pocket, wincing slightly. "It is nothing you need concern yourself with, Christine. Merely a slip of a chisel; my own foolish clumsiness."

That dismissive tone rankled and Christine raised her eyebrows. "Oh? So if it becomes infected and scars, the stiffness won't interfere with your music, will it?" she said sweetly. "You do still play, do you not, Erik?"

Damn the woman for her inquisitiveness, but already she was pulling gently at his arm, and resigned, he allowed her to tug it free and turned over his palm. She drew him down into a nearby chair and sat beside him, taking his hand into her own. Carefully, Christine removed the sodden handkerchief, seeing a fresh well of dark blood.

She pressed the linen tightly down and added her own dainty scrap of cambric atop it. His hand was cold and trembling slightly in her own. "Erik, this needs cleaned and maybe stitched. You must allow me to take care of it. I know you…I remember…you never took the time to…"

Her gentle fingers on his bare skin were sending tremors to his very core. The girl…the _woman_ …never had understood how her slightest touch affected him. And here he was, all these years later, still suffering the cravings of an adolescent boy.

In the silence Christine raised worried blue eyes to his face. A single crystalline drop slipped down her cheek, and she brushed furiously at it. "Oh my dear," Erik said softly, "please do not distress yourself on my behalf. It is merely a cut. I have had so much worse. Please don't…" Awkwardly, he raised a shaking hand and brushed away another tear with the back of one finger. "I am not worthy of your tears, my dear."

Savagely she wiped at her cheeks. "I'm sorry…I'm being ridiculous. But Erik, please let me tend to this? You know you won't take care of it properly, and…"

Already he was nodding, gently pulling away his hand. "Yes, if it will make you feel better."

 _Another round of foolishness_ , he thought despairingly, but he could no more have denied her than he could have ceased breathing, not when she looked at him with such concern in her eyes. Rising, she led him to a back room.

The shock of cold water was unpleasant, as was the subsequent lather of soap, but Erik kept his eyes focused on her face, memorizing every nuance. Thin fine lines edged the corners of her eyes now, but they only added to her beauty. The lamplight showed the silver hidden in her dark curls. She bit her lower lip, concentrating, a habit he had found enticing years ago and endearingly beloved now. It was impossible not to think of her as his Christine.

"There," she said, blotting his hand dry and gently applying a coating of salve to the lacerated skin. Deftly Christine wrapped a final strip of banging around his hand and tied it neatly. She looked up anxiously into his face. "Is it hurting?"

He would have endured far worse if it meant this heavenly contact. "No," Erik said quietly. "I thank you."

Christine leaned back in the wooden chair. "Erik," she said softly, holding his eyes with her own, "I wish to apologize for what I said the other night. No one could have been kinder to me than you were, and I never properly thanked you for teaching me, all those years ago. You molded my voice and gave me my chance, and I will never forget that."

"The gift was yours," he said quietly. "I merely helped to refine perfection."

Unable to bear the expression in his eyes, Christine took a breath. "Erik, you did not answer my question earlier. You do still play, do you not?"

He shook his head. "Only the violin, my dear. I fear I have not had access to any other instrument in quite a long time." But she caught the look of naked longing he had sent toward the rosewood piano the other night.

"Erik, you would be welcome to…to come and play my piano, any time you wished."

"I was unaware that you played."

She shook her head, smiling wistfully. "I always wanted to learn, but there was never time. My daughter-in-law has some skill with it, though. She will often play for us in the evenings."

He searched her face. "If it will not discommodate you, then yes, I would be greatly appreciative of a chance to play again. I am terribly out of practice," he said ruefully. "But I have longed for a piano. My present dwelling space does not allow for one."

He had lost the harsh and mocking tone. Taking a deep breath, Christine looked into the golden eyes. "Erik…would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or question or review :)


	6. Chapter 6 Coda

**A/N** —Answering questions time! Yes, I came up with his last name, but I don't know if it's an actual surname or not. It's an anagram of a screen name a friend once used. No one else is nearby when they have their little 'discussion' in the coffee line, so he can't resist the urge to be unpleasant. Erik covers up his feelings with anger, as always.

Huge thanks to all who review. You make the stress worthwhile!

Long chapter here, with phluff and angst both…please review? I love knowing what you think!

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 6—Coda

Riene, 2017

.

"Erik…would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Outside the windows, shadows were lengthening as evening approached. His thin and brittle fingers tightened painfully on her own before pulling away.

"Christine, I am hardly one you would care to be seen with at a dining establishment."

She sighed. "I didn't necessarily mean that. I often have dinner sent over…we could go to my flat."

But Erik had turned away. "I cannot entertain you on the piano tonight, my dear," he said coolly, holding up his bandaged hand.

She clutched at his sleeve, exasperated. "You know I don't expect you to 'entertain' me."

"Then what is it you want?" he snapped.

"I only want your company. We could sit and talk, the way old friends do. Would you please come?"

"Is that what we are? Friends?" he sneered. "I am not much of one for the social niceties, as you well know."

She held his eyes. "We could be. And you don't have to pretend with me."

"What is it you wish to discuss?"

"Oh, anything," she gritted, flustered with his obstinate refusal. "Your travels. How was Norway?"

"Cold."

"Erik!"

A muscle jerked in his exposed cheek as pride and anger fought against better judgment. "Christine," he sighed, "I don't think…"

"Please. For me."

He glanced down to where her hand lay on his coat sleeve and sighed. "You know I can deny you nothing," he said quietly.

Her blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "I was rather counting on that."

* * *

He had listened with one ear as Christine placed an order with Boulestin's, down the street. It mattered little what she ordered; food had rarely held any interest for him, merely a means to survive. She'd then retreated to some back room, changing out of her dark red day dress into a loose blue gown and slippers. A pleasant clink of china and silver came from the dining room as Christine returned to set the table in preparation for their dinner, and Erik allowed himself to be drawn to the gleaming rosewood piano in the alcove.

The lid was folded back and the bench sat at an angle, awaiting a companion. Cradling his injured hand in his lap Erik tested the ivory keys with one finger, head tipped, listening as each note fell with exquisite clarity in the stillness of the apartment. Single notes became a rippling glissando waterfall of arpeggios, soft as spring rain. Behind him he was only dimly aware of the door chimes and Christine's courteous voice thanking the delivery.

Footsteps crossed the carpet. "Erik?"

"It is a superb instrument," he said gravely, "well maintained and in excellent tune."

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "Are you making a joke?"

"I never jest."

"Of course not," she said solemnly, though her eyes were sparkling, and Erik privately congratulated himself on making her smile. "I was referring to dinner," she continued. "It's here, if you would care to join me?"

He stood and tipped his head. "If you insist."

"I do. Would you please choose something to drink?" Christine gestured at a wooden rack and began lifting the covers from dishes and Erik followed her to the dining room, studying the bottles, selecting one.

Dinner was quiet, oddly without tension, as each strove to keep the conversation light and impersonal, discussing the changes in Paris in recent years, of the post-war government, and of the women's suffrage movement. Erik had selected a bottle of crisp white wine to accompany the meal, and found it to be a pleasant vintage. She asked about the status of the church's organ, and Erik's golden eyes had warmed with eagerness as he discussed the repairs to the great instrument. Christine found herself watching his expressive hands and mouth with bemusement as his voice, warm as honey and flushed with enthusiasm, flowed around her.

The food was excellent, fish in a white wine and lemon sauce, with vegetables and bread, and Christine took care to keep her eyes averted from his face as he ate, remembering how he had once refused to do more than drink in her presence. She wanted to ask him to remove the bandaging and let his skin breathe, but it was too much, too soon, and she would do nothing to mar the fragile peace between them this night.

She took a sip of wine, reaching for a safe topic. "I never asked….how did you come to be at the church?"

Erik turned the goblet gently in his long hands, watching the pale golden liquid swirl about the fragile stemware then replaced it on the table. "Ah. Do you know of the small chamber music group that practices at the church?" At her nod he continued. "They had placed notices around the neighborhood asking if there were others who might wish to join the ensemble." He smiled wryly, a self-deprecating motion that sent pain to her heart. "There for a foolish minute I considered it. It had been so long, you see, since…" He sighed. "Anyway, I did not contact them but I did come to listen. They are a fine group, men displaced by the war from former lives. I missed the music…and it is not as if I could simply attend a concert."

Christine felt her throat constrict, remembering a voice, a mere whisper in a world of candlelight. _I needed music as other men needed air to breathe, and here…here it surrounded me._ She reached out impulsively.

"Erik, I have an idea. I have a gramophone, a good one. If you wanted, you could stay and we could listen to a symphony. I have a good collection, recordings from London and America, even."

His glowing golden eyes focused on hers. "You do? I have often thought of purchasing one, but…"

"Yes. You look through my collection of recordings and choose one. I'll make us some tea." She rose and crossed the salon to an elegantly carved upright wooden cabinet and raised the lid. Following, Erik could just see the curvature of a brass arm inside. A hand crank extended from one side, and she gave it a vigorous twist. "The recordings are on the shelf below."

He'd selected three when she returned, and held them up. "Do you have a preference? I know you were…once fond of Mozart and Chopin."

Christine lowered the tray. "I will always love Mozart, but I'm in a Chopin mood tonight. The _Preludes_ , please?" He nodded and handed the fragile recording to her.

Christine placed the disk on the phonograph and carefully lowered the needle. There was a crackle and hiss, then music filled the apartment. Erik leaned his head against the back of the sofa with the faintest of smiles as the rushing sounds swirled about them. In the quiet flat, the firelight cast shadows into the hollows of his face, and for a moment her guest bore the look of an El Greco saint, thin and suffering in long endurance. She felt it again in the pit of her soul, that dark current pulling her inexorably toward this enigmatic man, and Christine bowed her head, accepting it. Perhaps it had always been inevitable, this connection. Save for a brief period of fragile hope, there were endless years of crippling loneliness and desperation behind him. She would need to go slowly and be gentle.

It had been a peaceful evening thus far, the quiet dinner across from her, conversation and tension eased by the wine. Christine was wearing blue again tonight, a soft clinging gown that enhanced her eyes. The golden glow of light softened by silk lampshades warmed the small apartment, and now music…despite the ache in his hand Erik could not think of a time recently that had been so pleasant or relaxing.

The sofa dipped and cushion tilted as her slight weight settled upon it, beside him. Erik tensed, opening his eyes, but Christine merely smiled at him and toed off her slippers to tuck her feet up under the hem of her dress. After a moment, he felt the gradual shift in her position as she propped her head on her hand, listening with a smile just curving the edges of her lips. They sat in silence, absorbed in the music, each lost in their own thoughts until the symphony ended and the phonograph needle's thump brought them down to reality. Erik opened his eyes reluctantly, as did Christine. "Incredible," Erik said, bemused, "to hear a concert at any time one wishes," as a rumble of thunder echoed throughout the flat.

"It's raining?" she said, surprised, and Erik rose, crossing the salon to draw back the curtains.

"Indeed it is," he murmured, as another lightning flash lit the sky. Christine came to stand beside him, watching the bolts reveal the turbulent purple skies; the rain falling in slanted curtains. She leaned forward and unfastened the catch. "I've always loved the smell of rain," she confessed.

"As have I," Erik said quietly. She was standing so close he could feel the tendrils of her hair tickling the back of his hand, and could catch the sweet, subtle scent of her perfume.

Acutely conscious of the man behind her, Christine scarcely breathed. The wind blew the scent of the city and of rain toward them, a faint spray on her face. She shivered slightly and felt him start to step toward her then hesitate. Slowly, she leaned back, feeling her shoulders come into contact with his chest.

"Christine?" he whispered, shocked, and she shook her head. His arm came up, tentatively, hovering, and then began to drop. She reached out and covered his hand with her own, pulling his arm to her waist. His breathing was shallow and erratic, but slowly, he tightened his grip, as if in fear she would pull away.

She relaxed against him, trustingly, her fingers intertwined with his, holding his arm to her. Slowly, Erik inclined his head, leaning his cheek against her soft hair, and they listened to the rain.

* * *

"Forgive me," Jeanette had sighed, "but Mother Sellens really does have a bee in her bonnet about your attending and performing at her charity event for the hospital." The two had been sitting in Christine's salon, talking over tea. "It's Paul's old unit, you know, and she is still fiercely attached to it."

Christine nodded, remembering. Paul Sellens was Henri's much younger brother, a doctor in the same medical unit that Etienne had been attached to, and like her youngest son, had not returned from the front. The elderly woman had worked tirelessly in support of the medical group, sending supplies and care packages, organizing knitting circles to provide socks, caps, mufflers, sweaters, and mittens, and meeting the young men with shattered bodies who had been sent home. With the war over, Henri had gently suggested that she step back from her support activities, but the elderly woman had refused.

"Paul is a saint in her eyes, you know," he'd said ruefully. "I will never measure up. At least it gives her something to do, but I am sorry to have dragged you into her projects, Christine."

Now here a week later, Christine found herself at their house attired in one of her best dinner gowns, listening to the matriarch's plans for a charity fund-raising evening. Several guests of note had already been recruited for the evening event.

Henri's mother was a tiny woman, dressed in black with white hair piled high upon her head in the Gibson-Girl style of twenty years ago. Wizened and bent, she walked with an ivory-handled cane and Christine could tell her protests would be futile.

"I remember you, girl, the night you sang Marguerite at the Palais Garnier. I'm not so old as to forget that evening, no. You were splendid." Moselle Sellens pinned the younger woman with her black eyes. "I assume you still sing, girl. No one with a gift from God like that should have given it up."

"Christine still sings with her church choir," Jeanette said blandly, avoiding her friend's pointed look.

Marguerite Ashworth, still visiting, smiled encouragingly over the rim of her glass. "Madame de Chagny is a woman of several talents, I see. I would be delighted to hear you sing."

Christine rested her fork on the edge of the plate, carefully avoiding the damask tablecloth. "I have not sung in public in many years, I am afraid. I've only recently joined the church choir; my voice is not nearly what it once was."

"Nonsense, girl. I was at your parish on Sunday last. I came specifically to consider you. You're exactly what I need for the programme. Now, what do you say?"

"How can I say no?" she replied helplessly, but with a smile, meeting that gimlet gaze. "You honor me, Madame Sellens, and I shall be honored to assist with your event."

Henri poured another glass of wine for the table. "Now that Christine's involvement is settled, whom else do you have in mind, Mother?" A servant cleared the places as they began discussing the charity gala to be held at La Madeline. The elderly woman had recruited a pianist of some renown, a pantomime group, another singer, and a chamber music group to perform. There were to be dramatic readings and a slideshow. Proceeds would go to purchase rehabilitation and mobility equipment this time, crutches and wheeled chairs, artificial limbs, and other needed items.

Christine half-listened, her mind wandering to what music she might be expected to perform. Perhaps she would ask Erik to assist, and hid a smile. He would no doubt be difficult to persuade, but what she would give for a chance to sing with him again. A growing warmth spread in her chest at the thought of working once more with her Maestro.

* * *

The radio murmured softly from the salon, providing the illusion of companionship that evening. Christine had returned from the Sellens' home some hours previously but sleep remained elusive. She'd released her hair from its pins and hung the elegant sea-blue dress back in the wardrobe, slipping into nightgown and wrapper only to wander the confines of the flat. It was nights like this that she missed Raoul with an almost physical ache. He'd always known how to handle her restless nights, bringing a cup of warm tea laced with brandy or a sweet liqueur, standing behind her to wrap his arms around her and pulling her against his chest, leaning a cheek against her head.

Tonight she could almost feel his presence, smell the scent of his cologne, feel the rough stubble of his face and throat.

 _What bothers you, my darling?_

 _Nothing._

He'd stand there, simply rubbing his cheek against her hair, waiting patiently.

"I…I think I want to perform again," Christine whispered into the empty room. "Not on stage, no, but at this gala charity event Moselle Sellens is hosting. You remember the Sellens, don't you?"

 _Of course_ , he'd answer, with that rumble of laughter.

"But I can't do it on my own, Raoul. I need my Angel of Music to help me."

She could almost see him frown. He would have turned her around to face him, studying her.

But what was the problem?

Guilt, she realized. Guilt that she was thinking about becoming involved with a man other than her husband.

In the months after his death, Christine had spent her days in grief and helpless anger, berating herself for allowing Raoul to leave the house in the storm that night. The loss had been devastating, the nights endless. The absence of her boys and subsequent loss of Etienne and the horrors of the war had contributed to an overwhelming feeling of helpless sorrow and impotent rage

After the armistice, matters had slowly improved. Philippe had returned home, injured but alive, and married a girl he'd met in the service. Her daughters had married good men who loved them, and moved across the sea. Little Stephan was born. Rationing was lifted, the cities rebuilt. And slowly Christine Daae de Chagny found her feet again. Philippe's investments thrived, the estate recovered, and more than one man noticed her existence.

Well aware she was an attractive widow, Christine did not delude herself into believing it was solely due to her charms. Several men had lingered over her hand, kissing her fingers and murmuring sweet words in the years after Raoul's death. But she knew part of her charm stemmed from the vast Chagny fortune, one of the few that had survived the war years more or less intact. Most importantly, none of the men had interested her. She had deeply loved her husband and missed him. But now…

Erik had no interest in her money, she knew. He had a fortune of his own, he had told her once, jewels and money well invested and hidden. No, should Erik desire her it would be for herself, and that heady knowledge brought a warmth pooling in her stomach.

And Raoul…she had loved him dearly and always would. They had had a good life together, and raised a fine family. But he was irretrievably gone. No amount of tears would bring him back, and she was here, needing to move on with life.

Her decision made, Christine slept at last.

* * *

Farouk had come and gone, bearing away the days' efforts. Erik had seen him off after securing the oilskin-wrapped bundles to the rack of a new safety bicycle that the young man had bought from his earnings, and of which he was very proud. Farouk had ridden away with a cheery wave, and Erik had allowed himself a nod and wave in response, before tugging the muffler more tightly about his face and thin shoulders and heading back upstairs.

Alone in his quiet flat, Erik leaned against the doorway, idly stirring a spoonful of brandy into a well-deserved hot cup of tea. Rain slashed against the skylight, bringing with it a damp chill to the upper floor rooms. A week had passed since his unexpected dinner with Christine, a week of somewhat sleepless nights spent reliving and analyzing every word, every gesture. She had touched him, allowed him to hold her in a careful embrace. What did it all mean? His mind refused to accept that she could intend anything serious by these actions. And yet…

He left the empty cup on the drainboard and read again the note, left for him at the church.

 _Erik—_

 _An interesting proposition has come my way, an invitation to sing in public again. As you know it has been many years since I performed, and as the one person who knows my voice and capabilities, I am curious as to your opinion of this matter. Could I do this successfully? Should I? I am well aware my voice needs work; while good enough for the church choir I am hardly prepared for the stage!_

 _Would you care to meet me Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, at the_ _Jardin de la Vallée Suisse? I am most interested in discussing this matter with you._

 _-Christine_

Erik raised the note to his non-existent nostrils, trying to find her scent, and knew he had already decided upon his response.

* * *

The tiny park, just off the Champs-Élysées and Grands Boulevards, gave the impression of being pleasantly secluded with its meandering rustic paths and dense canopy of trees. He'd found Christine waiting on a bench beneath the bare branches of a weeping beech tree. She frowned at the stick, noting his slight limp.

"Erik, are you able to walk with me?"

He raised his visible eyebrow in a haughty stare. "I am. This is an old injury now, though it was most inconvenient. A broken ankle, in Norway, long recovered." Though Erik took care to keep his tone light, the incident had been humiliating. A slip on a mossy rock face, his ankle wedging into a crevasse between the sharp stones. He'd known immediately it was broken, and the descent had been agonizing. Almost as bad had been the weeks of recovery, laid up in the pensione room, paying exorbitant amounts of money for food delivery by staff either terrified or prying. The limp had never left him; Erik suspected he had forced himself to walk on it too soon, not allowing proper healing, but he had wanted to leave the area, loathing being dependent for so long.

He crooked one arm and Christine smiled up at him, placing her gloved hand inside his elbow. The watery sun broke through the clouds at intervals, warming the slight breeze. They strolled slowly, mindful of the icy patches left behind from the recent storm. Around them children raced by, clattering across the wooden footbridge, chasing balls or each other; a few other couples meandered along, giving only a mildly curious glance before continuing. They stopped to watch a little girl feeding the ducks and Erik glanced down at Christine's expressive face, watching her wistful expression.

"Thank you," Erik said quietly, and puzzled, Christine glanced up at her thoughtful companion.

"For what?"

"This." He gestured generally with the stick. "For walking with me. For being here." Christine could sense he was sorting out thoughts and they ambled on for a minute before he continued. "When I was a younger man, this is what I wanted. A wife to go walking with on Sundays. A house. To be like other men." He smiled dryly. "The closest I've ever come to those dreams has been each time with you, Christine. So I thank you."

She squeezed his arm. "It's my pleasure," she answered lightly. "I enjoy walking, but it's much more pleasant with a companion. We should do it again."

"Yes," he said softly, his eyes glowing. "If you wish."

"I do."

They continued on for some minutes until Erik glanced down at her. "Christine, if my memory does not fail me, you requested this meeting. You had something to ask me…?" His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Hesitantly, she found herself telling her silent companion about Etienne, the brown-haired boy forever bringing home some small wild creature, learning to splint a broken wing or leg, bandaging an injured foot, and more often than not, succeeding in healing and releasing it, how he'd grown to be interested in medicine and pursued that desire to help others into a war that had claimed his life, how a grieving elderly woman had taken her own pain and used it to help other young men, how she could assist Madame Sellens in the upcoming charity gala and honor her son at the same time.

"What do you think, Erik?" Christine said thoughtfully. "No one ever knew my voice as well as you did. I've no idea what to choose. I'd hate to strain what tone I have left, and make a fool of myself," she added ruefully and took a deep breath. "So Erik… would you please help me?" The words tumbled out in a rush. "I know you're busy, you must have other things that take priority, but it would mean so much to me if you'd help me prepare for this event."

Beside her, Erik was silent, deep in thought. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this. "Christine," he said tightly, "I am not certain this is wise. Why not request the assistance of M Canton?"

She frowned at the walking path. "M Canton is a good director, but he is always busy, and impatient. He's not a voice tutor. He's not _you_ , Erik. I need my Maestro."

 _Maestro._ How easily the word slipped from her tongue, the old familiar pet name she'd once called him. Beside her Erik had frozen and she risked a glance up at his taut face. His lips were compressed in a thin, tight line, his golden eyes, often nearly colorless in the daytime, were blazing now. He turned, claw-like fingers tightening on her arms.

"What game are you playing, Christine? Oh, I do not doubt that this gala event exists," he snapped, "but I cannot fathom you wanting this," he swept his free hand at himself, "back in your life again."

Christine frowned. "Of course I do, Erik. I thought I'd made that clear."

"I need to know what is in this…arrangement…for me. What is in it for _me_? When I _last_ invested my time in a student, she repaid me by fleeing from me, giving up everything we had worked for, throwing away the dedication to her lessons, for …for nothing!" he sneered. "And _I_ was left with nothing! Nothing! And you did it for what? Marriage and children?"

His words were venomous and Christine turned in a fury. "So that's what this is about. You're still angry with me after all these years." She faced him with rising indignation. "You changed so much, Erik. You were my teacher, my friend, and I loved you dearly. I'd have done anything you asked, followed you anywhere. But you became so distant, so hateful and violent. You couldn't even speak to me without such hatred seeping into your voice! My God, Erik, you killed a man, two men, maybe three! I was terrified of you!"

"You gave me no choice!" he roared.

" _I_ gave you no choice? You gave _me_ no choice! What was I supposed to do, fall happily into the arms of a man who threatened the very lives of my friends? Who repeatedly lied to me? I loved you, and you terrified me! That chandelier could have killed or injured dozens of people, and you didn't even _care!_ So yes, I turned to Raoul! He was a good man, Erik! He loved me! I trusted him and he promised to keep me safe. And he didn't frighten me!"

He spun on one foot, walking away so quickly she had to hasten to catch his arm. "Damn it, Erik, would you please stop! Stop walking away from me! I'm so tired of this!"

He looked down to where her slender hand lay on the dark wool of his coat sleeve. "Did you think _I_ did not love you?" he asked harshly.

"I didn't know what to think," Christine snapped, and turned from him, walking a few paces away to face the fountain. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, a slight figure in a dark blue coat, gloved hands twisted together. The late winter sun showed the silver in her dark hair, the hollows of her cheeks, and the faint softening in the lines of her face. A few tendrils of hair escaped their pins, curling gently on her neck. Even from here he could see the tears glistening in her still impossibly blue eyes. His anger flared and dissolved, a bleak emptiness burnt hollow in his chest.

"You should cover your throat," he said roughly, and she turned, brushing a finger under one eye. "Did you mean that? What you said?"

"What?" Christine said tiredly. "Did I mean what?"

"That you…that you had loved me, then."

She laughed shakily, emotionally spent. "Yes. Of course I did. How could I not have?"

He stared down at her, heart pounding and hands trembling. "And what do you feel now?" The world teetered in balance, waiting for her next words.

Christine looked up at him, grim, bitter, and scarred. "I never stopped loving you, Erik."

* * *

Flushed with pride, Sophie sat the cassoulet down on the table and lifted the lid with a flourish. Savory aromas issued forth and Philippe made appreciate noises.

"I don't get to cook much anymore," Sophie had confided earlier that day to Christine, casting a wistful glance at the kitchen. "Not that I don't appreciate Cook, but…I was used to doing on my own."

Christine had nodded in understanding; the same had been her experience upon marrying into the de Chagny family. "You may always feel free to use the kitchen here," she told her daughter-in-law, and the young woman's eyes had brightened.

"Oh may I? Phil won't be back for hours, and it would give us something to do!" And so the two had braved the wintry weather to forage in various shops. Sophie had borrowed an apron and tied her light brown hair up in a kerchief upon returning and had banished Christine from the kitchen.

"Go rest, Mother. I'll handle this," she'd said happily, and Christine had smilingly ducked out of the warm room, intending to tackle the growing pile of correspondence on her desk.

Philippe, though, had been strangely quiet over dinner, frowning often, his attention clearly elsewhere. Disappointed in his reaction to the meal, Sophie had been subdued as well.

When at last the young kitchen helper had removed the last of the dishes and bought tea, Christine decided to address the matter. She set her teacup down and calmly looked across the table to where Philippe sat, his brows drawn together in a frown. "What is it, Philippe?" she asked gently. "All evening you've been brooding."

He glanced at her and away, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. Christine sighed. "You may as well tell me. You've never been any good at keeping your feelings hidden."

"He still isn't," Sophie said fondly, patting his hand. Philippe scowled.

"My friend…I heard from my friend…he mentioned he had seen you walking with a man, and later he observed you both entering this flat."

Christine took a slow deliberate sip of tea, nonplussed. "I was not aware I was under observation."

He made an impatient gesture. "He merely happened to be passing by."

She raised her delicate eyebrows. "And saw fit to 'merely' mention it? I did not think I was accountable to you or anyone for my actions, nor whom I choose to associate with."

Sophie looked back and forth between the two angry faces and put out a placating hand. "Surely Mother Chagny is allowed to see friends?"

"I am responsible for you, Mother. Who was it?"

Christine took another deliberate sip of tea. "He is an old friend from my Opera days. His name is Erik Delaunay," she said coolly, knowing that would be the next question.

"Erik Delaunay." Philippe muttered the name as if it were a bitter taste on his tongue. "Delaunay…I don't know of a …" He froze. "Erik? Mother? Not as in the man you knew back when you met Father?"

Christine looked at her oldest child steadily. "Yes."

Sophie looked between them again and tried to lighten the mood, smiling. "Mother? Did Philippe's father have a rival for your affections back then?"

"He was no romantic rival," Philippe snapped. "Father told me about him, once. He was a murderer, Mother. An extortionist. He set the fire that nearly destroyed the Opera House."

She sighed. "That is not true. The fire was an accident from those old gas lights."

Philippe stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped backwards. " _Damn_ it, Mother, he kidnapped you and tried to kill Father! What the hell are you thinking?"

"Yes, Philippe, but he also let us go. There was a lot about that night that your father didn't remember."

"You _cannot_ be seeing him again! Is that why you wanted to return to Paris?" Philippe paced the dining room angrily.

"No, of course not. I had no idea he was still here. I didn't even know he was still alive."

"And you just happened to run into him again?" Philippe sneered.

Sophie had turned to Christine, puzzled and alarmed. "Mother, what is he talking about? Who is this man?"

Christine pressed her fingers against her forehead tiredly. "Erik was my voice tutor at the Opera. He fell in love with me and…"

"…threatened and extorted money from the management, crashed a chandelier, killed at least two people, _including_ possibly my uncle, kidnapped _you_ , Mother, and nearly _killed_ Father!" Philippe shouted.

Sophie's eyes were enormous, and she pressed a hand against her abdomen. "Mother?"

"It was thirty years ago, Philippe! People change!"

"Not like that!" He raked a hand through his disheveled hair and took a deep breath. "What does he want from you this time?"

"Philippe, please sit down," Christine said gently. "Erik is just a friend. We talk together, have dinner sometimes. He plays and I sing. He…"

"He sounds as if he's courting you."

"Would it be so terrible if he did?" she said quietly and Philippe looked up, horrified.

"You can't possibly be serious! If you marry him, you'll lose the title and everything!"

Christine rubbed her forehead tiredly. "You know I don't care about the title and the estate is yours—it always has been. Your father settled money on me years ago. I am fine."

"My _God_ , Mother!"

The mantle clock chimed softly and he spun around. "I can't deal with this tonight. We have to get back…or take a hotel room for the night. Sophie, get your things." Philippe gritted his teeth. "This is not the end of this discussion. I bid you good night, _Mother_." He spun on one heel and slammed the door.

Sophie rose awkwardly from the table and hugged Christine. "Don't worry, Mother…I'll get him calmed down." She kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek. "It will be all right."

Christine embraced the young woman. "I hope so, but you know how he is."

"Sophie!"

"Coming, dearest." She sighed and began walking toward the salon.

Christine followed her to the door. "Sophie, please consider getting a hotel room for the night. You know you're welcome to stay here, but..."

Sophie nodded. "No, I won't let him drive back in such a temper. Goodnight." She flashed Christine a smile and was gone.

Christine closed the door and leaned her throbbing forehead against the cool glass.

* * *

.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please be kind and leave a review. :) I'd love to see this story reach a hundred comments!


	7. Chapter 7, part 1 Fine

**A/N—** Welcome back! This chapter is stretching out rather long, so I've divided it into two parts. I'll try to post the second half quickly, as soon as the first part gets a few reviews.

For the record, I've no idea if La Madeline church has a parish hall such as I've described. My French simply isn't good enough to delve through the official website. The room I've described belongs to a church here in my city.

As always, I hope you read and enjoy. Please review, it encourages me to keep writing!

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 7, part 1—Fine

Riene, 2017

March

"No no no," he said irritably, "you are not breathing properly. I taught you breath control years ago. Christine! You must find focus!"

Christine stood in the curve of the piano in her old customary spot, flushed and perspiring. "I will never be able to reach those high notes again," she snapped, hands pressed to her stomach.

"Nonsense," he retorted. "We are going to do this properly or not at all. Now find your diaphragm and from the beginning!" Erik flexed his bony hands and launched into the tonal scale once more.

For an hour they had been doing simple warm-ups. Or warm-ups that had once been simple. Had he always been this exacting? They'd argued earlier over a choice of songs—Christine wanted one operatic piece and one song from a popular repertoire. Erik had commented acerbically on modern music before settling on the piano bench.

He'd taken to coming over every afternoon lately, refusing offers of luncheon or dinner, staying two to three hours at a time before disappearing again. He explained he needed to prepare for her lesson, to make fingers and shoulders cramped from hours hunched over a desk writing, limber enough to play. To her delight, Erik also played for himself during the first part of the visit, eyes shut in pleasure. Classical and operatic pieces, snippets from the radio, church hymns, and unfamiliar songs that must surely have been some of his own compositions; he sat on the bench, shoulders relaxed, swaying slightly, and called forth music with a master's touch.

Pleased he had accepted her invitation to play the rosewood instrument, Christine had found myriad excuses to remain in the salon. There were letters to write to her daughters overseas, minor sewing, knitting, or a novel she could feign interest in as an excuse to sit nearby and listen. Quite often she'd bring a cup of tea or coffee and leave it on the shelf above the fall board and Erik would absently consume it, more often than not.

Her maestro was as thorough and demanding a tutor as he had been all those years ago, stopping her to correct timing, breath, vibrato, or pronunciation. They'd agreed on her short piece, _O Mio Babbino Caro_ , an aria from Puccini's new opera _Gianni Schicci_ which had débuted only a year or so ago in New York and Rome. For most of her listeners, it would be a new piece of music.

"It seems a little young for me," Christine had said doubtfully, perusing the libretto that he'd somehow acquired for her.

Erik raised his eyebrow then waved one hand dismissively. "Most of the audience will have no idea of the lyrics, as you are aware."

She laid the booklet aside. "I wish," she said thoughtfully, "that you could accompany me on the violin for this piece. I think we would go well together. The violin somehow suits the song more."

Erik turned away, but not before she saw a flash in his eyes. "Alas, we both know that is not possible," he said curtly and turned to the keyboard, shuffling the brightly-colored folios on the music rack.

"Give me your hands," Christine said suddenly, and Erik reflexively withdrew them from sight.

"Why?"

"Please." She sat beside him on the bench and held her own hands out patiently. Reluctantly Erik allowed her to take his bony fingers into her warm grasp. She held them up and sighed. "Erik, you're over-using your hands. I thought so…let's stop for a moment."

He sat, still and tense, as she gently began rubbing his red and swollen knuckles. Her touch was heavenly, a bliss that sent tremors to his core as she stroked his sensitive hands. "Christine?" he said sharply. His left hand clenched on one knee, as the slight pressure of her fingers warmed and soothed his cold flesh. "What are you doing?"

"Massaging your hands," she said calmly. "Do you mind?"

"I…no." He exhaled and forced his body to relax. She was touching him, touching him without fear, and yet it was abruptly too much. The clock chimed softly from the corner desk behind them and Erik pulled sharply away and raised the music folio.

"Enough, Christine. Would you like to hear this once more before our time is over?"

"Yes, please," Christine said meekly, and he cast a suspicious glance her way. Rising, she moved to stand beside the bench, to better read the music and lyrics.

"Sing with me," he ordered, as he began the introduction, "and pay attention to the dynamics."

The music pulled her in, as it always did. She could not read his expression with his gaze lowered and the bandaged side of his face toward her. Straightening, Christine took a deep breath and braced one hand on his shoulder. Erik flinched but continued playing. Beneath the wool his shoulder was tense wiry muscle and hard bone. Absently she smoothed the material, fingers moving soothingly, stroking his shoulder as she sang. Gradually he relaxed into her touch, feeling the warmth from her hand, and she leaned forward, turning the page. They finished the song, her voice hanging sorrowfully in the still air of the flat.

"That was lovely," she sighed, "and it felt good. It needs work, of course, but it felt good to sing like that again."

"Yes." Erik nodded, neatly stacking the sheets of music, and rose stiffly from the bench. "I must be on my way."

They walked together to the door and Christine caught his cold hands in hers again, holding them gently. She looked up, her eyes meeting his wary gaze. "Thank you, Erik" she said simply. "I truly appreciate you devoting so much time to me and to this project. I know you've more important things to do."

"We will continue to make progress," he said and stared down at their joined hands. She was standing near, so close he could feel the warmth from her body, smell the sweetness of her hair. His nerves felt tightly wound from the earlier unaccustomed contact. There was a pause, during which he looked down into her clear blue eyes, eyes that regarded him with warmth and tenderness. "Christine…"

"Yes?" she said softly, and Erik released her hand to tentatively touch her shoulder, sliding his hand down, feeling the thin material under his trembling fingers. The intensity of his golden gaze was unnerving. She could sense his hesitation even as he moved toward her, his fear she would draw back. The world seemed to hang in the balance of a heartbeat, a breath.

And then she stepped into his hesitant embrace, reaching up to his shoulder, her other hand resting on his thin chest, and felt his arms hover for a moment before carefully closing around her.

Erik's embrace was everything she remembered, all hard bone and angles, not a bit of spare flesh or softness. Her maestro smelled of sandalwood soap and clean linen, and beneath her cheek his heart pounded, his breathing shallow and shaky. Christine slid her arm more tightly around his shoulders, feeling the hard ridges of spinal bones, and gently stroked the soft, short thin strands of hair on the nape of his neck.

Erik shuddered against her but did not move, unfamiliar warmth flooding his cold body. How could she not be repelled? Her fingers on his scalp were sending frissons of pleasure through his flesh, and his skin, so long denied any touch, wanted more of this contact, begged for it, demanded it.

Slowly Christine raised her head from his chest and looked into his burning eyes, searching his expression, then smiled, shutting her eyes and leaning against him. Erik raised a shaking hand to touch her soft hair, then slowly tilted his head until she felt the faintest touch as his cool dry lips brushed her temple.

With great reluctance Erik stepped back, releasing her, skin tingling from the embrace. She felt the barriers slamming down again, Erik retreating into whatever private, controlled world of self-denial he existed in. He seized his hat from the table, jammed it down over his bandaged face, snatched his coat, and was gone.

* * *

Around him the house settled, the creak of stone and sharp crack of wood contracting in the cooler night temperatures. The hour was late; he'd no idea exactly the time, as he'd pushed the Persian's old silver pocket watch under a pillow to dull the inexorable ticking. Resigned, Erik swung long, bony feet over the edge of the bed, flinching at their contact with the icy floor, and leaned his forehand tiredly against his hands.

Those afternoons were bliss in his joyless existence, playing the piano in the peaceful grace of her apartment, Christine sitting nearby, busy with some small task. Quiet conversation, a cup of tea, the crackle of the fire and his soul was soothed; for a minute the shadows pushed back, the biting loneliness eased. He'd been careful to avoid the entanglements of a meal, though the dear girl offered frequently, and had tailored his work on the church organ to hours he was certain she would not be near.

But now a line had been crossed. He had held her, kissed her, and Christine had allowed it, resting willingly in his cold embrace.

He could not become further involved.

He had nothing to offer her, save his somewhat-dwindled fortune, and even that would eventually become hers; a legacy in the will he'd deposited one day with Farouk's father. He'd done it shortly after learning of her widowhood; it was the final gift Erik would be able to bequeath Christine, that along with his music and violin.

But it pulled at him, this agony of want. Briefly he considering leaving France again, and heard for moment Khan's disdainful words across time. "You cannot always run from your troubles, Erik," the Persian's voice had said sharply, as he'd stared down at the court magician, lying with careless grace on the brilliantly colored woven rugs forming the floor of a desert tent. "You cannot flee from Fate and the Will of Allah. What will be, will be." He'd sneered at that, a younger, arrogant man, twisted by anger and greed, a man deluded into believing power an acceptable substitute for peace and happiness. Now he knew Khan's words to be true.

And knew he could no more stay away from her than he could cease breathing.

* * *

Christine emerged onto the busy street from the stairs of the Métro and looked about, orienting herself. She was slowly gaining a familiarity with the various stations and lines. Like many others, they had been passengers during the grand opening of the system at the Paris Exposition Universelle in 1900, but Raoul had not been fond of the underground system, and with transportation of their own, had preferred to avoid it. Now Christine was finding it useful, a way to avoid the icy winter streets.

La Madeleine loomed ahead, a Neo-Classical inspired church close to the Paris Opera. It was here Moselle Sellens attended and here she intended to host her charity event. Dodging slushy puddles and passing omnibuses, Christine pulled the fur collar of her blue wool coat up tightly about her throat and crossed the street.

She was some minutes early, not yet being able to judge the amount of time needed when traveling by the Métro. Christine hurried past the enormous columns and through the great bronze doors into the church itself, grateful to be out of the weather, and passed through the vestibule, looking about with interest. Erik had spoken once of the immense organ here, built by Aristide Cavaillé-Coll and regarded as the finest in Paris. Noted composers Camille Saint-Saëns and Gabriel Fauré had both been organists at the church, and Erik had on more than one occasion expressed a desire to play the instrument. The organ dominated one wall and she stopped to view the vast instrument, staring upwards in awe at the carved wooden casing and soaring pipes, wishing Erik could see it as well.

She toured the building slowly, taking in the High Altar with its statue of St Mary Magdalene ascending into Heaven, the frescoes, and the three immense domes over the single nave. The church was enormous, the ceiling lost in the darkness above the hanging lamps. It was a stunning building, but Christine found she preferred the smaller parish church of St. Thomas. The huge building was a masterpiece of art, but felt impersonal.

"Christine?" Jeanette hurried toward her, heels clicking. "I'm glad you made it. Isn't this weather abominable? I sometimes think this winter is going to last forever." She shivered theatrically. "Come, Mother Sellens is this way."

"Yes, I'm quite ready for spring," she agreed as they walked. "With whom are we meeting? Henri's note didn't say."

Jeanette raised her elegantly drawn eyebrows. "My dear, _we_ are not meeting. Mother Sellens has already seen to that. We are merely here as acolytes, to trail about and make agreeable noises to everything she suggests."

Christine hid a smile, knowing there was no love lost between mother- and daughter-in-law. "Well do tell me where I am to be agreeable, then. All I know is that she wanted me to look at a room."

"This way," Henri said behind them, puffing as he trotted up. "Mother is in the Hall. She wants to know if we think it suitable for the fete. I said I think it's fine; there's a small stage at one end and an area for serving. The chairs can be moved aside for the dancing."

"Dancing?" Christine looked between them, surprised. "I didn't know there was to be a dance as well."

Henri swept a hand over his short dark hair and grimaced. "Yes. We've now acquired a small orchestra." The smile below his neatly-clipped moustache was strained. "This event gets more elaborate every time I turn around."

"Madame de Chagny, if you please." The imperious demand could not be denied and Christine turned, nodding pleasantly.

"Madame Sellens.".

"This way, girl, don't stand there."

The elderly woman was pacing near the church offices, the thump of her cane bringing a sudden smile to Christine's face.

The church hall was an immense room, wood parquetry flooring and golden wood paneling, soaring up to a lofty ceiling. Doors at the far end led to a serving-kitchen, and at the other end a raised dais served as a small stage. Dozens of chairs sat ready in rows facing the dais, and a grand piano was placed at an angle under tall arched windows.

"I think this room will be quite large enough," the older woman mused, gesturing across the open space as their small group approached. "I'll have Enrique bring in the small round tables, and that way it will seem more casual." She pinned Christine with a beady look. "What do you think, girl? Can you stand on that stage and sing?"

Christine bit down a retort as Henri interjected. "I'm sure if Christine could once fill the Garnier this room will provide no trouble."

"This is as it may be," Moselle Sellens sniffed. "I wish to start rehearsals with the musicians next week. Will you be ready?"

"Yes," Christine forced herself to smile serenely at the older woman. "I've been working with my voice tutor for the last few weeks. We will be ready in time."

"What have you chosen? Nothing depressing, I hope. We want a happy crowd. Happy crowds spend money."

" _Barcarolle_ from the Tales of Hoffman, as it's familiar, rewritten as a duet between voice and instrument, and a new song, _O Mio Babbino Caro_ , from a new opera. It's not premiered in France yet." Christine said calmly. "They are well within my range."

Moselle Selens nodded approvingly. "Knew I could count on you. Your son and daughter-in-law are planning to attend, yes? And bring your music teacher along if you want."

Christine nodded. "They are, yes, and looking forward to it." She deliberately avoided mentioning Erik. "What is to be the schedule for the evening?"

"Dinner, entertainment, dessert, dancing. I've cleared it with the church. They'll donate the space, and I'll provide for the dinner service and cleaning. Henri!"

As the elderly woman summoned her son and began gesturing, Christine walked down to the dais platform. She'd need a dress with a bit of color to stand out against these walls. _Bring your music teacher_ indeed. She let out an unladylike snort, imagining Erik's acerbic response. Thoughtfully she looked around the room, the vast empty space. It was unlikely he would even attend if she asked. There was no place for concealment here, nothing but the immense open room, and he would be an object of interest amidst the crowd, scrutinized by the wealthy patrons Moselle Sellens would no doubt be inviting. But to dance with him…her pulse fluttered just to think of it.

* * *

The doctor's appointment had gone well and Sophie relaxed against the leather seat gratefully, shutting her eyes. After the trouble with Stephan's birth, Philippe had insisted on a Paris doctor to attend his young wife. Fortunately, this pregnancy seemed to be going smoothly.

"On to luncheon now," Philippe announced as the car pulled smoothly away from the busy avenue.

Sophie blanched. The mere thought of luncheon with Philippe's investment partners held no appeal. And their cigars afterwards…she swallowed queasily. "Phil, dearest…would it be a terrible inconvenience if I did not go to lunch with you today?" She put one hand over her abdomen. "I'm not feeling up to it. You could take me to your mother's flat and I could stay there until you all were done."

He frowned. "Of course, but would you rather go shopping? I know you don't get up here that much."

She smiled wanly. "No, I'd really rather just go put my feet up and I might just lie down for a while."

Already he was swinging the long nose of the car toward the family apartments. "If you'd rather, then," he said, but frowned at his wristwatch. "I'm afraid I won't be able to go up with you, though. I'll be late as it is."

Guiltily Sophie ducked her head. "It's quite all right. I am perfectly capable of riding the elevator by myself. And if Mother isn't there, I have a key. I'll be fine."

The Renault pulled in front of the block of flats and she leaned over for a kiss. "Take your time, dear. I'll be here."

But once upstairs Sophie stood hesitantly outside the heavy, carved wooden doors with their opulent stained glass. From within the flat came the sounds of music. Someone was clearly playing the rosewood piano and she could just catch her mother-in-law's voice raised in song, together with a deeper, male voice. She frowned, concentrating. Not a church hymn, but surely something brighter. An aria? Perhaps Christine had visitors? Well, she could not retreat, and reluctantly Sophie raised a fist to knock on the door.

Instantly the music ceased, and a moment later Christine opened the door. Her face was flushed and her deep blue eyes held an unaccustomed sparkle. She stepped back. "Sophie! Come in."

Sophie's eyes were drawn across the salon to where a man was rising from the piano bench. Her breath caught. Dressed in a formal black suit, he was a stranger, tall and terribly thin, an older man who had evidently been making the beautiful music mere moments ago. He put one skeletal, long-fingered hand against the instrument as if for balance and did not move.

Behind her the door shut, then Christine was walking back across the Axminster carpet to the piano and its silent guardian. She touched his arm as Sophie approached. "Erik? This is my daughter-in-law, Sophie de Chagny, Philippe's wife. Sophie, I would like you to meet an old friend of mine, Erik Delaunay."

"Erik?" she said involuntarily, glancing sharply toward Christine, who nodded.

He turned toward her and she gasped. Set deeply into his thin face, golden eyes looked down on her, eyes like a hawk or falcon. One side of his face was lined and weary, an austere face with a high cheekbone. Bandages covered the right half of his visage, tied in place with thin strips of linen, revealing only a thin mouth. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," she said breathlessly, and aware she was staring, dropped her eyes, blushing furiously.

"The pleasure is mine, Mme," he said softly, and her eyes jerked back, stunned at his voice, a voice like warm chocolate, amber and dark, a rich and seductive baritone. The golden eyes studied her a moment, a coolly appraising look, then turned, angling his damaged face away from her wide-eyed gaze.

Sophie flushed again and reached toward her mother-in-law. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but Philippe and I were in town. I had a doctor appointment and he went on to meet with those shareholder friends of his. I just couldn't face the dinner," she said apologetically. "I came to see if I could stay with you or just lie down for a while."

Already the tall gaunt man was moving past them, gathering his coat and stick, pinching the brim of his hat to pull it low across his face. Sophie looked toward him. "I am so sorry…I didn't mean for you to leave."

"I must be going," he said in that velvet voice, and she stood awkwardly while Christine followed him to the door.

"You will return?" she asked quietly, her hand on his arm.

Erik looked down at her and without answering, raised her hand. Christine shivered as his cool lips brushed her fingers and then he was gone.

Sophie sank down into a velvet-covered end chair and laughed weakly. "So that was…I've met a murderer."

Christine rounded on her fiercely. "That was more than a lifetime ago! He would never harm either of us."

Remembering that cool gaze, Sophie wisely said nothing. "He's not at all what I imagined, from hearing Philippe talk. What…what happened to his face? Have you ever seen it?"

Christine sat down across from her daughter-in-law. "Yes, I've seen his face, many years ago. It's badly disfigured…he was born that way and shunned his whole life. But he's brilliant, Sophie, well traveled, speaks several languages. He was an architect and engineer, a composer and a musician, almost entirely self-taught. What he could have done if only his face…"

"Had been normal?" Sophie nodded. "I can see how his face might have made it more difficult for him. He's still a superb musician, Mother. That was him playing when I arrived, yes? And you singing?"

Christine smiled. "Oh yes. We've been rehearsing for Moselle Sellens' charity gala. He's also come by a few times, just to play. Today he asked me to sing with him, as we used to. I've missed it, and so had he."

 _And that's not all_ , Sophie mused, remembering the look in the older man's eyes as he had kissed Christine's hand. _But what do you feel for him?_

* * *

.

I hope you enjoyed this! Please give it a review...part two is written and waiting to be posted!


	8. Chapter 7, part 2 Fine

**A/N** —And now we've reached the final installment. The story has been written with this ending almost from the very first pages…it would only write itself so, despite me considering other possible outcomes. Erik was leaning over my shoulder saying he wanted to do something right for once, and he's hard to say no to.

Answering questions:

Let me reassure you that yes, Philippe is Raoul's son, and named for his brother. He's just being a rather pompous prig at the moment.

Erik wills the end of his fortune and music to Christine after they meet, when he finds out she is a widow. He was worried about her.

Over on my tumblr site I've been posting the reference photos that go along with the story, if you'd like to see them

As always, thank you for reading, and please please leave a comment or review.

On to part two.

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 7, part 2—Fine

Riene, 2017

While waiting for the kettle to boil, Christine walked about the salon plumping cushions and folding away the morning paper. Luncheon was cleared away, the young maid Estelle departed for her afternoon employment. Outside the day was bleak and rainy, the draperies left open to let in the light.

Resolutely Christine carried her afternoon tea to the writing desk where an ever-growing pile of correspondence awaited attention. She'd barely begun on a letter to her older daughter when the telephone at her elbow began to ring. Setting aside the fountain pen lest it leak, Christine raised the receiver. Surprisingly, it was Erik. She had not known he had the number.

"I am unavoidably delayed," he said, irritation creeping into his voice. "A last minute request from my employer. Christine, I do not think I will be able to attend to your lesson today."

"I quite understand," she said, disappointed, leaning back in the chair and looking out at the grey skies. "Erik, would you consider having dinner with me instead? It's been some time since you dined with me last."

She could almost sense his hesitation. "Please. It has been such a quiet day here, with the rain, and it gets rather lonely at times."

"What time?" he asked, resigned.

"Seven? Would that give you sufficient time to complete your task?"

"I believe so." He will make it so.

"Then I will see you tonight. A bientôt."

"A bientôt," he echoed.

The afternoon sped by. At some point the doorbell rang and to her surprise a young Arab boy stood on the other side, white teeth shining in his tan face, and a lively curiosity in his black eyes. He had handed her a sturdy basket filled with parcels, and Christine thanked him, offering a tip. The young man shook his head cheerfully and refused, backing away smiling. The delivery proved to contain a variety of interesting items, flowers, a bottle of dessert wine, expensive cheese, fruit, and table crackers. There was no card, but the gifts could be from only one person. The evening felt important somehow, a redefining of their relationship. Thoughtfully Christine laid the table, placing new candles into holders and a recording of Straus waltzes on the gramophone.

The red dress had hung in her wardrobe for some weeks, a soft clinging silk chiffon gown which fell just below her knees, trimmed with gold embroidery, leaving chest and arms bare. It was still rather chilly, but the dress had been waiting for a special occasion for too long. Smiling, Christine twisted her long curls up, leaving her neck bare, securing her hair with a gold and ruby pin on the side, and added a dot of perfume behind her earlobes, on her wrists, between her breasts. The eyes looking back at her from the dressing table mirror were sparkling, and a flush accentuated her cheekbones.

"You are far too excited," she told her reflection severely, applied the powder puff and went to call in a dinner order.

Erik arrived promptly at seven, attired in a dark grey suit, precisely-knotted tie, and snowy white shirt. Christine locked the door behind him as Erik removed his black coat and hat, carefully hanging them in the vestibule before turning to her, straightening his cuffs, and she noted the black stones that secured them, similar to the ring he always wore. His golden eyes swept her slight form admiringly, noting the bare expanse of skin, then he raised her hand, gently kissing her fingers.

"You are lovely tonight, Christine," he said gravely. "Red suits you."

She blushed. "Thank you. Dinner will be here in a few minutes. Would you care for a glass of wine while we wait?" She indicated the piano where two glasses stood, and Erik seated himself on the bench, idly running his fingers along the keys. Before long music flowed, smooth and easy from his hands. Debussy, she thought.

The young man from Boulestin's arrived with a series of covered dishes fifteen minutes later, chicken and mushrooms in a marsala wine sauce, rice and vegetables, and a chocolate torte for dessert. Erik remained at the piano, his bandaged face turned from view until the delivery service departed, then rose and held her chair, assisting Christine before taking his own seat.

"Who was that young man who brought me such lovely surprises this afternoon?" she inquired, making conversation and lifting her serviette. Across the table Erik unfolded the square of damask cloth and draped it across his own lap.

"His name is Farouk; the son of an acquaintance," Erik said, testing the soup. "I employ him; he runs errands for me, deliveries, brings up my groceries, and such. He would like to attend university, to become an engineer. He works for several men, saving and studying."

"And you are helping him," she smiled, and Erik gave her a severe look.

"He follows directions correctly and asks few questions."

Christine's eyes sparkled above the rim of her wine glass, and Erik felt a surprising warmth at her praise.

They left the dinner dishes and carried their glasses into the salon, where Erik again seated himself at the piano. Christine plucked an envelope from her desk and handed it to him. Erik regarded the expensive paper suspiciously. "What is this?"

"Your invitation to the fete where I will be singing," she said with a smile. "I was hoping you might consider attending."

He took it but did not open the engraved envelope, choosing his words carefully. "The invitation is appreciated, and I will try to find a way to listen, Christine, but dinner at such a public function is out of the question. I cannot…" he hesitated, and Christine nodded.

"I understand, Erik. But I wanted you to know that you are welcome to attend." She smiled, remembering. "You used to say you had never missed one of my performances."

"I did not." His golden gaze locked on hers. "How could I possibly plan for our next lesson had I not attended the evening performances?" he asked lightly.

"Ah. What other reason could there possibly have been?" she said, eyes dancing.

"Indeed. I would not be remiss in my duties as your instructor."

Though his tone was grave, one corner of his mouth quirked up and Christine's smile widened until she was laughing at his dry humor.

An hour passed in conversation and music, Christine curled up on the sofa, watching as Erik indulged her requests on the piano. Eventually she rose and returned with two small plates, motioning him to join her on the settee. The bittersweet torte was rich, a decadent indulgence, and each savored the thin slices in reverent silence. Erik surveyed the sideboard and poured them each a small digestif as Christine raised the lid on the gramophone.

"I have a new Strauss recording," she said, lowering the needle. "We can listen while we eat." After a moment, _The Voices of Spring_ filled the salon.

"I did so love to dance," she said wistfully, as the first song ended.

"Did you regret leaving the ballet?" Erik inquired, with a slight frown. "If so, I did not ever know of it."

Christine shook her head, leaning on one arm against the sofa. "Regret? That's too strong of a word. I did miss the camaraderie of the girls and the vigorous exercise. And the beauty of it too, of course. But I was a small part of a much larger mechanism. Singing gave me the chance to shine on my own, and I have you to thank for that, Maestro," she said, and patted him on the knee.

He nodded, pleased, and she noted his foot tapping. Christine took a deep breath. "Erik. Would you…would you dance with me, please?"

He lowered the fragile stemware, the barriers crashing down in his face. "Christine, I do not dance."

She held out her hand. "A waltz is easy; I can teach you….and I do so miss it."

Reluctantly, Erik set aside the glass and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. She took his hand and placed her other on his shoulder, gazing up at his face expectantly. Slowly, stiffly, Erik rested his other hand on her waist, staying well away from her bare skin, and she stepped into his embrace.

How many times had he observed the gala balls at the Opera, brilliantly-dressed couples whirling by, wondering what it would be like to hold a woman in his arms, feet moving in an intricate pattern, bodies pressed together, a kiss stolen, endearments whispered?

The salon was not large, but it was easy enough to follow the simple steps of a waltz. After a moment Christine relaxed, secure in the circle of his long arms, pleased and more than a little surprised that Erik had somehow known the steps of the waltz. For a moment she imagined him down below the Opera House in the semi-darkness, practicing the steps alone to a dance he would never attend, and she felt a painful stir in her heart for his isolated, unhappy life. Slowly she leaned toward him, pulling their joined hands in together to lie between them. Erik's arm encircled her protectively, as if holding an infinitely precious fragile object, and she sighed, resting her head against the hard planes of his bony chest. Their steps slowed, a simpler movement in time with the music playing softly about them, the apartment an isolated world of soft golden lighting and muted colors, high above the streets of Paris.

Only once before had he felt the sweet pressure of another's kiss on his nightmare face, but Erik had never stopped wanting it again. His bony hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing her temple, pulling her so slightly toward him, waiting for her to draw back. But she did not, and Christine tilted her chin up, lips parting.

She felt his thin, cool dry lips brush the corner of her mouth, a touch so light and tentative she was almost uncertain it had happened, and then he was searching her eyes, bending slightly toward her again, unsure and hesitant. Christine pulled his body more tightly to her own, softly kissing him back, threading her fingers through his remaining hair as they embraced. Heart hammering from this blissful contact, Erik nearly forgot to breathe. His fingers brushed her bare skin, and for a brief moment he debated removing the gold pin from her hair, feeling the soft curls cascading down her back and regretfully pushed idea away, but knew he would dwell on it later, his active imagination replaying the scene again and again.

She smiled, warm and relaxed in his arms. "Oh Christine," he murmured, and held her to his heart.

* * *

"I am sorry the meeting went on as long as it did," Philippe said irritably, "but I could hardly get up and leave in the middle of things." The Renault turned smoothly onto the darkened avenue, leaving behind the residential neighborhood and passing businesses and restaurants closed for the evening.

Sophie stared out the window at the empty streets. "I think I'll stay home next month," she said shortly. "Those meetings always run long, and I hate to impose. I'm sure Emeline and Matthieu wondered if I'd ever leave."

Philippe's mouth tightened "Perhaps it would be best if you stayed home, then. I thought you enjoyed coming up to the city with me."

Sophie tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and put out a placating hand. "You know I do. I just dislike these late evenings. It takes so long to get back home and I'm always afraid we'll have a puncture or hit an animal. Besides, I'm tired."

He shot a glance at her. His wife did look tired, one hand pressed to her abdomen, her face pale. She'd reached the stage in her pregnancy where sleep was becoming difficult.

"If you'd rather, we can see if Mother will put up with us for the night. We can get an early start in the morning."

"Yes, please." Sophie leaned her head back against the leather seat, her eyes closed.

Ten minutes later they pulled up in front of the block of flats on the Rue des Jardins. Lights shone from between cracks in the curtains high above, and Sophie had been relieved to know Christine was still awake. Philippe opened the door.

"Go on up; I'll put the car away. Or you can wait for me."

He entered the ground floor lobby with her, and Sophie sank onto a nearby bench. "I'll wait," she said, and he nodded.

"I'll be right back."

He tucked the car into a narrow space below a street lamp, hoping it would be undamaged in the morning. The wind was chill and Philippe set a brisk pace back to the block of flats. High above, light spilled from the windows, and shadows passed across the Roman blinds. Shadows? He frowned. Who would possibly be visiting his mother at this hour?

Philippe mounted the steps, two at a time, and collected his wife, riding in silence up the iron-cage elevator. They paused outside of the family apartment for a moment, Philippe raising his hand to knock even as Sophie pressed his arm, her thoughts spinning too quickly to speak, too late to draw back, for there was music on the other side of the door, the gramophone playing.

Philippe frowned and fumbled for his key, the one they rarely used, and opened the door.

Across the room, warm light suffused the salon illuminating the couple who had been dancing slowly to the sounds of the gramophone, a couple who abruptly broke apart, turning to face the intrusion. Beside her Philippe drew a sharp breath, his body suddenly rigid with anger. Sophie peered around his shoulder, confused and filled with trepidation, recognizing the man with her husband's mother.

Christine was held close to a very tall, very thin man, whose amber eyes blazed with fury. She stood beside him as they approached, but did not release his hand as Philippe stalked across the floor. Sophie trailed in his wake, feeling a disastrous rise in the tensions of the room.

"Mother?" he said tightly, looking past her shoulder to the gaunt man, standing very still. He pulled his hand from Christine's, stepping around her.

Christine put a hand on his arm, holding him in place. "Philippe, I was not expecting you tonight."

"That's obvious, Mother. May I ask who your guest is?"

She tilted her chin up. "Philippe…"

"Monsieur de Chagny, I presume," Erik said coldly and inclined his head. "Or should I say Comte de Chagny? Erik Delaunay." He did not offer his hand.

Philippe's eyes flashed, ignoring the older man. "What the hell is he doing here, Mother?"

"I invited him to dinner," she said evenly. "He is my guest."

Philippe's lip curled. "I thought we'd talked about this. This man is…you are not to see him, Mother."

Beside him Christine's face was white with anger, and only the pressure on his arm prevented Erik from speaking. "Philippe, I don't have to answer to you or anyone. Erik is my friend and my guest, and I'll thank you to remember that."

"Phil…" Sophie cast a pleading glance at Philippe, then at Christine, desperate to ameliorate her husband's fraying temper. Philippe ignored her and glared at the older man.

"If it is not apparent, you are not welcome here, _sir_ ," he said coldly, "and I must ask you to remove yourself at once."

"Oh, you are indeed your father's son," Erik sneered, loathing taut in his beautiful voice. "So sure of yourself and of everything you know. And yet you know nothing, like your father before you."

"I know what you are," Philippe snapped. "And I'm proud to be my father's son! He told me about you, what you did all those years ago. How you…" he took a deep breath.

"That's quite enough." Christine said, furious. "You don't get to dictate whom I see."

"Maybe not. But I do get to decide who is around my family, and in my home. People are talking, Mother, and I refuse to allow you to dishonor Father's name like this." Philippe's face was deathly pale.

"Philippe," she said, aghast at the turn of events.

"No, Mother. Him or us. He is an unrepentant murderer, Mother. I cannot allow you to associate with such a person. Think of Stephan and your other grandchild." He gestured at Sophie, whose horrified eyes darted back and forth between them, one hand pressed to her abdomen.

"You know nothing of my 'repentance'," Erik said coldly. He turned to Christine, his face softening, going weary. He took her hands in his cold fingers and raised them to his lips. "But for you, yes, for you I will abase myself. I am sorry, Christine Daae, for so much, for many things you never knew of. Age has taught me this, if nothing else. I am sorry for lying to you and manipulating you, so many years ago. And I am sorry for Piangi, who never did me harm. I was…not myself that night, and I have truly repented his death many times. And perhaps Buquet, and even Carlotta, who did not deserve the treatment she received from my actions." He squeezed Christine's fingers gently, then looked past her shoulder. "And yes, even your father, boy. Though I did him much less harm than the others, he still suffered at my hands. But I did not kill your uncle. His death truly was an accident down there, under my catacombs, though I did arrange for his body to be found." He turned back to Christine.

"But I am not sorry for this, for the only warmth and acceptance I have ever known, for your touch and your company, my dearest Christine. In all the world there is no other person I care about, save you."

Philippe's bloodless hands clenched tightly over the back of a chair. "Mother, you must make your choice. It is him or us."

"Philippe!" Sophie cried, horrified. "How can you ask that?"

"Him or us, Mother. I will not allow my wife and children around a murderer."

"You cannot mean this." Christine's face was ashen.

"I can and I do."

Beside her Erik suddenly straightened, pulling himself up to his full and imposing height. For a moment there was utter silence, then he lifted Christine's hands to his thin lips and kissed her knuckles gently. "I once placed you in an impossible dilemma," he said softly. "I will not do so again. Oh Christine," his golden voice broke, a harsh whisper. "I will love you until my dying day. But I will not be the cause of this quarrel." Gently he squeezed her fingers and released them.

"Erik, no." He shrugged off her hand. "You don't have to go. Please, don't do this."

"I refuse to be the cause of an estrangement between you and your children!" he snapped, looking away and glaring at Philippe. Without another word, Erik swept from the room, the final sound in his ears of Christine's beautiful, pleading voice, calling his name.

* * *

"You were an utter bastard to your mother." Sophie's voice was taut with anger. She paced the salon angrily, twisting her hands together. Philippe stared sullenly into his glass of whiskey. Christine had locked herself in the master bedroom, refusing to answer either of them.

Philippe slammed the glass down. "I will not be associated with an extortionist and murderer. Who in their right mind would? Get your things; we're leaving."

"At this hour?" she said, aghast.

"Would you suggestion staying?" He grabbed his coat. "Let's go."

Sophie sat in front of the fireplace, wishing the dull embers would provide more warmth. Everything was chilly, Philippe's mood, the room, her heart. It would be impossible now to spend the evening in the Paris flat but she dreaded the trip home. She rose awkwardly to her feet and knocked once more on Christine's door.

"Mother, we're leaving. We'll lock the door behind us."

But only silence met her words.

* * *

The week of rehearsals dawned, the Paris weather only marginally improved. The hired musicians easily read Erik's handwritten notation; a violin added its voice to the duet. Her voice soared effortlessly, trained and tuned again by a master, a clear soprano that rose to the ceiling and made those in the room stop to listen.

There was no word from Philippe or Sophie. The silence was agonizing, a brutal loneliness as she had not felt in decades, pressing heavily upon heart and soul, a grief that led to sleepless nights and no appetite. Dully Christine continued preparations, choosing a teal chiffon gown with a sea blue and gold sequined overlay and slight train for the night. The dress was utterly perfect, showing her delicate collarbones and long neck to advantage. Henri and Jeanette fretted over the details of the fete, and Christine commiserated with them, glad of the distraction from her thoughts. Of Erik there was no sign, no word, and slowly the empty hours stretched into a miserable succession of days. All was as if they had never met again, the fragile bond between them shattered.

With the note she'd left him in the basement workroom seemingly untouched, Christine approached Father Montserrat and asked if he had seen Erik recently. Perplexed, the priest offered her a note in a familiar spiky handwriting, and she took it from him, dread pooling in her stomach. The missive was direct and abrupt.

 _I thank you for the opportunity to assist in the repair of the church organ_ , it began. _The instrument is as complete as I can make it, and now needs the attention of a professional. I remain,_

 _Your humble servant,_

 _Erik Delaunay_

She'd thanked the priest unhappily, avoiding his gentle concern, and returned to the Madeleine and the frantic preparations. She had given Erik and Philippe both an invitation to the fete and could now only pray they would attend.

The night of the gala was clear and cold. Unable to bear the silence of her flat, Christine took a cab and arrived early, her dress over her arm, and made herself useful about the hall, forcing a smile and avoiding questions. Guests began to trickle in, including two dozen men whose weary, battle-worn faces stood apart from the well-dressed crowd, men in uniforms, clean and pressed to be sure, but uniforms, there to both be offered a brief evening of pleasure and to remind the others what was owed. Madame Sellens herself escorted the men to a table near the front, and Christine ducked into the back corridors, looking for the room she'd been assigned, and rapidly changed into her gown.

The church Hall was nearly full when she emerged, the buzz of voices and clink of china spilling into the hallway. Marguerite Ashworth swept by arrayed in diamonds, her silver head nodding pleasantly to Christine, on her way to superintend the serving area. The older woman smiled and charmed as she poured tea and answered questions, her soothing voice a welcome balm against the buzz of multiple conversations.

Beside her Jeanette appeared, looking frazzled. "I will be so glad when this night is over. It means so much to Mother Sellens." She squeezed Christine's arm. "I know she's a tartar, but thank you so much for agreeing to all this. Are your children here?"

"They're coming later," Christine explained, hoping it was true. "I wanted to be here early." She forced a laugh. "I think my nerves are a bit unsteady—I haven't performed in years."

"Drink a glass of champagne and you'll be fine," Jeanette grimaced. "It's the only way I'm getting through the evening. Your gown is lovely, by the way. I wish I'd had time to do some shopping myself!"

Too nervous to eat, Christine accepted a glass of water and took a sip, listening as Moselle Sellens welcomed her guests and introduced the string quartet, whose music began the evening. Christine took her seat with Jeanette and Henri, awaiting her turn in the programme. Philippe and Sophie entered at the far end with a group, and Christine nodded once to the table where they sat, along with several of their friends, and men who formed her son's business consortium.

And then it was time. A smattering of polite applause followed as Christine rose gracefully and stepped onto the brightly-lit dais. Smiling at the uniformed men at the front, she nodded at the musicians and took a deep breath.

* * *

..

* * *

Alone in the small room that served for a dressing area for the performers, Christine stared numbly into the mirror. A pale face with trembling lips and overly-bright eyes met her gaze, and she forced back the tears. In no way could those tears be shed tonight.

She had been so certain that he would come, would be there to hear her sing, might even have arrived at the dance, correct and formal in white tie and tails, to dance with her. And she would have allowed it, no matter what the others said or thought. She'd chosen her dress carefully, a new style gown of shifting draperies in various shades of teal, blue, and gold, enhancing her eyes. She'd pinned her hair up in a sleek style, held in place with fragile jeweled combs, dotted on a tiny amount of perfume and pinched her cheeks for color. The necklace she had chosen was one Raoul had never seen, a single sapphire crowned with a triangle of diamonds, hung on a fine chain. Erik would see it and remember; he had given it to her after her first gala performance, fastening it around her neck with fingers icy even through his gloves. She had sung Desdemona that evening and he had been pleased with her.

" _You voice is a beautiful thing, child," he said, his amber voice enveloping her in a rare warmth. She smiled tentatively up at him, at the mask glowing white in the mirror, his dark hair and suit blending into the shadows of her dressing room. She shivered as his black-gloved hands wrapped around the slender white column of her bare throat. "If you would allow me…a small token…" and a cold weight settled around her neck, deep blue sparks reflecting in the gaslights. She gasped and touched it._

" _Erik! I cannot accept this!"_

" _Please…it pleases me to know you have some small token of my esteem, of my faith in you…"_

She had kept the necklace, never wearing it again, for how could she have explained its presence to the others? The jewel had rested in the velvet box she'd later found on her dressing table, left hidden in a side pocket of her trunk all these years.

Tonight, though, she wore it, the stone a perfect accompaniment to her gown. He would see it and remember, and yet…she had scanned the shadows and the corners, the alcoves and stairwells, searching for one tall, stiffly formal, angular thin man, and did not find him.

She sang to thunderous applause and requests for an encore, the evening passing in a blur, numb to Jeanette's radiant smile, Moselle's sincere thanks, Henri's exuberant hug, the compliments from the audience, the appreciation from the men in uniform.

None of it mattered.

The pain settled into her chest, a dull knot below her breastbone.

She had been so certain he would come.


	9. Chapter 8 Encore

**A/N-** ….you didn't really think I was going to end it there, did you? ;)

I have received what is for me a rather surprising number of notes about the ending of Chp 7. Some people expressed their pleasure that it was a rather realistic ending and liked the unsettled, incomplete feeling. Others were absolutely outraged—how dare I leave this hanging? What about Erik and Christine? And while it's true that I did deliberately leave the _Fine_ chapter somewhat unfinished, there was also always to be one more chapter, for every good concert deserves an Encore, yes?

So if you preferred the first ending, well, best stop reading now. If you were hoping for a different ending, then…read on. :)

* * *

Dal Segno al Fine

Chapter 8-Encore

Riene, 2017

April

The rose gardens at Chagny were a noted beauty spot in this region of France, and in later years would become famous as a stop on the inevitable garden tours as the big estates of Europe struggled to stay afloat after the devastation of a second world war. Now they lay cold under mulch and heavy wet earth, brown thorn-filled sticks, their soft green growth of the previous year pruned back again.

"Keep an eye on Mother while I'm gone." Sophie stood pensively before the dining room windows. "She's not been herself lately." Christine sat alone on the terrace, a rug over her knees and a cup of cold tea on the table beside her, her book lying discarded on the flagstones. The sun shed scattered rays through broken clouds, but the wind was chill.

Philippe glanced through the diamond-paned window. "Are you blaming me for that?" he asked tightly.

Sophie turned quickly, patting his hand. "No, of course not, dear. I'm just worried about Mother. She's far too quiet."

"That's hardly my fault."

Sophie raised her eyebrows, clear blue eyes on his. "I didn't say it was, Phil. It's just that sometimes you are so certain what other people need, and…you're not always right about it. I'm going to go finish packing."

No, Mother Christine was most definitely not herself, Sophie mused, slowly mounting the stairs, pausing halfway to catch her breath. She'd come out to Chagny a few days ago to help with little Stephan, as his mother approached her confinement. But her normally smiling mother-in-law was quiet and withdrawn, so much so that when Sophie carefully broached the idea of Stephan going for an extended visit to his maternal grandparents in the warmer south of France, Christine had smiled wanly and nodded. She herself would be departing on the train tomorrow, returning to Paris.

"You will let me know as soon as there is any news?" she'd asked, holding the younger woman's hands.

"Of course," Sophie answered, kissing Christine's cheek. "Take care of yourself, please, and we'll see you soon."

No, Christine was most definitely not herself, and Sophie was fairly certain she knew the reason why.

* * *

The Paris flat was almost unendurably quiet. Not that she lacked invitations; multiple charities and churches had been sending requests asking for her involvement since the night of the fete, but thus far Christine had declined them all. The rosewood piano sat in its alcove, draped with a dark green quilted dust cover. She could not bear the sight of it.

Philippe had sent one stiffly formal apology and a request to dine with her, as Sophie had chosen to remain in Montpellier for a few days visiting her family. She'd set it aside, unwilling to commit to a meal alone with him at this point. It would need to occur at some point, but not yet.

Slowly Christine resumed her work at the parish church, the problems of the immigrants and refugees a welcome distraction from her thoughts. The silent organ drew her eyes each time and eventually she approached Father Montserrat with a proposal.

Taking a page from Moselle Sellens' book, Christine quietly organized a funding campaign to complete repairs on the St Thomas church organ, culminating in a Sunday afternoon concert and reception. Gerald Canton, sensing an easy method of public exposure to further his own career, readily agreed and a programme of music was selected

The great instrument needed surprisingly few modifications to add new electrical apparatus and to repair the forced-air system. Any remaining funding, it was decided, would go toward the purchase of a new console. To Christine's delight, her friends donated to the parish cause and Marguerite Ashworth sent a surprisingly large bank draft. Even Philippe sent a check by way of a silent apology.

Repairs commenced and a search for a new church organist began. If Christine hoped the advertisements would draw out a certain person, noting was said, and nothing became of it.

* * *

They lay tangled in the sheets, her warm leg flung over his in an attempt to relieve the strain on her lower back. Philippe kissed his wife's bare shoulder and pulled the blankets up around her, studying her sleeping face half hidden in tousled hair. She was at the stage in pregnancy when he didn't dare to love her except with his hands, and she claimed it helped her to relax.

It didn't help him any, but Philippe was no stranger to self-imposed control. He'd known men, married men, even, to take their ease amongst women during the war, women desperate enough for a bite of sausage or bit of bread to barter their honor. French women, German women, Polish refugees…and war-weary men who only wanted a moment's release and to forget about the horrors for a short time.

But he had not done so, though he'd turned the other way when fellow officers slipped away at night. Philippe was fairly certain that the father who looked on his mother with such adoration and love in his eyes, even after all these years, had never once strayed, and he, Philippe, who desired to be like his father in all things, would do no less. Also was the memory held dear of a young woman, an aide working in the War Office, a girl with short, fly-away soft brown hair and bright blue eyes who had given him her name and address and had hoped he would find her after the war, whose letters sustained him on the bleakest of nights.

He snuggled down next to her.

His wife was leaving tomorrow, leaving for the warmer south of France and taking their son to see his grandparents. He'd been planning on accompanying them, but duties at the estate and a meeting with the shareholders had cropped up, and Philippe had been forced to alter his plans.

Sophie had been quiet all evening, looking at him thoughtfully, clearly wanting to talk about something but not yet ready to do so. He'd long since learned it was better to let her bring things up in her own time than to force the issue. Sophie looked like a young country girl but she had a backbone of pure steel.

It was over dinner she'd broached the subject of Christine, he remembered.

"He makes her happy, Phil," Sophie had said earnestly. "No, hear me out," she said when he started to speak. "I never met your father, but I know she loved him truly. But he's gone," she said gently. "Do you expect her to spend the rest of her life alone? Try to look at her as a person, not your mother. She's still fairly young. She could have another thirty or forty years. Do you want her to be by herself? She has us, of course, but it's not the same."

"Why him? She could find someone else. Anyone else," he'd said, irritably.

She gazed at him calmly. "Why do any of us love who we love? Phil," she leaned forward awkwardly and took his hand, "Phil, listen to me. If anything happens to me, with this baby, you must…I don't want you to," she took a deep breath, "I don't want you to be alone. Take the time you need, but I want you to find someone else, someone who would be good to our children, and good to you, too."

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he said roughly, and she smiled.

"I hope not. I feel fine, and the doctor said everything is going well this time. But I mean it, Phil. Promise me." There were tears in her eyes.

"I'll….think about it, if, god forbid, if…"

She'd nodded, pressed his hand, and released it.

"Christine shouldn't be alone, either. That man cares about her; I've seen how he looks at her. And she cares about him. What does it matter what happened all those years ago? Your father never pursued any action against him, did he?"

Unwittingly, the conversation came back to his mind, Raoul explaining an ordeal underground, a dazed memory of water and violence, and his own thinner younger voice asking how they had escaped.

 _He let us go_ , Raoul had replied, the disbelief still apparent. _He released us because he loved her and he couldn't bear to see her unhappy. He could have killed us both, and he didn't._

 _Did you ever see him again, or go back?_

 _No. Your mother wanted to, to see if he was still alive, but I dissuaded her. And he never contacted us. Something in him had changed._

Had his father forgiven the man? He frowned, her words coming back.

"What do you mean, he cares about her? How do you know?"

"I was at the apartment one afternoon when he was there," she admitted, and glanced away as her husband's jaw tightened. "I only met him that one time. He was playing on the piano and she was singing…and they were so happy together. He kissed her fingers, and I…I just knew. I could see it in the way he looked at her."

"I didn't know you'd been around him before. You should have told me."

She raised her stubborn small chin. "And what would you have done? Reacted exactly like this. And he left immediately; he was a gentleman. Your mother told me a little about him, how he was disfigured but a genius at so many things." She sighed and rose from the table. "I'm not saying you have to welcome him into the bosom of the family, Phil…but let your mother work it out. Give her a chance to be happy again."

* * *

"You're looking chic today, Mother," he said, as Philippe opened the door for her, stiffly formal, and Christine took her seat on the smooth leather of the Renault, carefully tucking in her dress. Her son slid behind the wheel and started the engine, pulling out onto the busy avenue.

"I thought we might try the Bofinger," he said diffidently. "It's rather quiet and somewhat out of the way, where we could talk."

"That will be fine," she replied, gazing out the windows. A few minutes later he parked the car on a side street near the Rue de la Bastille and came around to offer his hand as she emerged. The restaurant was not crowded at this hour and they were soon seated. Christine gave her coat to the waiter and hung her beaded purse on the back of the chair and removed her gloves, smoothing the thin tan leather neatly. They ordered, and Philippe leaned back in his chair, studying the woman across from him, noting the changes in the past month and the silver threads in her dark hair. Christine had knotted her long curls at the nape of her neck, to fit just below the blue cloche hat, a severely formal style he'd rarely seen her wear. She'd lost weight, and there were new fine lines around her eyes and mouth. She looked tired, and he leaned forward, capturing her hand.

"Mother," he said quietly, "I've come to realize something Sophie said to me before she left was right. And…I'm sorry."

Surprised at the admission, Christine raised her eyebrows and took a long, measured sip of water. "I'm…glad…to hear you say that, but what brought this on, Philippe? I find it difficult to believe you've had a change of heart."

He squeezed her fingers gently and released her hand. "No, I still don't approve. But something she said before she left, that if anything ever happened to her, she wouldn't want me alone for the rest of my days. She's still in Montpellier with her family and the house has been…rather quiet. I've had a lot of time to think."

Christine tamped down the retort that rose to her lips, forcing herself to remain calm. For her stiff-necked son to apologize was rare and to attempt a rapprochement even more so. She took another sip of water, choosing her words carefully.

"I'm sure she's not staying away on purpose, Philippe."

"No," he moved restlessly, leaning on one hand, a finger above his mouth. "She's just spending time with her family before the baby is due. I'll be glad when all this is over and she's back home, and everything is done with. She wants a daughter, you know, this time."

"Yes, I know," Christine smiled slightly. "Don't tell her, but I've been making a layette for a little girl. If it's a boy, someone else can always use the items. Have you chosen a name?"

He smiled faintly. "Cara, if it's a girl."

"And if it's a boy?"

"She thinks it's a girl." For a moment a trace of wry amusement crossed his face and he shrugged.

"Well, we women do sometimes have a feeling about these things," Christine said lightly.

Their meal arrived and for a few minutes they were silent, tasting the entrees. Finally Philippe looked up and cleared his throat. "Have you…have you heard from him, Mother?"

"No." Her gaze was steady. "There has been no word. No telephone call, no message. Nothing."

They ate in silence for several minutes, Philippe clearly turning over something in his mind, and she waited patiently for him to speak.

Finally he looked up, his eyes troubled but calm. "Mother…I don't like it, I don't think I ever will, but if the War taught me anything it's that not everything is simple and that people do things…under duress…that they might not normally do." He took a deep breath. "So what I'm saying is…"

"Don't, Phil. I…understand." But the smile did not reach her eyes.

* * *

Pursued by a sense of melancholy, Christine found the rainy day fitting her mood. The afternoon concert for the organ fund had been a success, raising enough to cover the second phase of repairs. The event two days before had been surprisingly popular, with a large attendance at the morning service, and with people returning for the concert and reception. Christine sang with the choir, not wanting the attention, and though she kept sharp watch on the audience and alcoves, did not find the face she sought amongst the listeners.

With no desire to return to the empty flat, she drew her coat up and buttoned it, fishing in one pocket for a silk square kept there for emergencies. Perhaps some exercise and fresh air would be of help, and found her feet taking her to the Jardin de la Vallée Suisse. She slipped inside the massive entrance pillars, walking slowly along the meandering footpaths.

The soft mist was deepening, drops gathering on the rocky ledges and dripping from leaves, darkening tree trunks and giving the path an air of unreality. The weather suited her mood, grey and melancholy, and no one else was about, having the sense to stay indoors. Christine pulled the top button of her blue coat loose and tucked the trailing ends of her silk scarf down into the collar.

Around the curve of trees the path widened and an old wooden bench, damp with moisture, sat hidden in the bend, paint peeling and iron curlicue sides slick with gathering droplets. Slowly Christine approached and took a seat, gazing about.

Tiny fragile blades of green pushed through the deep brown soil near the base of the trees, perhaps the first jonquils or hyacinths. If one looked closely, the faintest flush of delicate color touched the ends of the slender branches, the beginning buds that would leaf out into spring. The garden was utterly silent, the birds quiet from the impending rain, and peaceful.

A faint sound caught her ears, the slightest scrape of leather on stone. A man's figure appeared out of the mist, tall and dressed in grey, a hat pulled over his face. Christine's pulse trebled, and the man raised his head, golden eyes piercing the distance and focusing on her own. Her lips moved, a name, but made no sound.

He walked toward her, slowly, as if afraid she was no more real than some ephemeral dream, a wraith of longing that would disappear in the wind. He carried flowers, a paper wrapped bundle of peach and pink and cream, and then he was at her feet.

Erik removed his hat and knelt before her, piling her arms with the blossoms, and said nothing, the knees of his grey suit darkening from the puddled water. His golden eyes searched hers, questioning, not asking, and slowly, Christine lifted a trembling hand to cup his cheek.

Erik let out a shaky sigh, shutting his eyes and leaning into her touch. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone, tears pouring silently down her face. He braced one hand on the wet wooden boards, bowing his head.

"Christine," he whispered, "can you ever forgive me? I have tried, so hard, to stay away from you, and yet…"

"Hush." She was crying, her other hand on his shoulder pulling him toward her, lips touching his forehead. "Erik."

Flowers fell around them, tumbling to the wet earth as he fell forward into her arms.

* * *

Christine turned from the kitchen, stirring the steaming tea, breathing in its scent. Erik leaned against the table, one leg crossed in front of the other, eyes shut, holding a cup in his long bony hands. In the harsh electric lighting his face looked haggard, older than his years, lined and weary. She'd caught a glimpse of herself in the pier glass as they'd entered and winced, not looking much better, hair straggling and dark circles beneath her eyes.

They'd returned to her apartment, taking off wet shoes in the entryway. Erik removed his grey suit coat and hung it over the back of a chair near a furnace vent. She'd handed him a towel and gone to change, returning in a simple day dress and slippers, her hair loose and curling fiercely from the damp.

He'd started water boiling, searching through cabinets looking for something hot to drink. Christine had shooed him away, setting out tea and coffee preparations, grateful to have something to do with her hands.

Erik had said nothing since returning to the flat, but his exhausted eyes never left her face. Christine held herself tightly apart, fearing that if she touched him there would be no turning back. Thin strands of dark grey hair lay plastered across his bare head; the knees of his suit were stained and wet through. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, revealing scarred, sinewy arms, and loosened his tie. She'd never seen anyone she wanted to hold more, to mould her body against his wet shirt, lay her head on his shoulder, and say the hell with propriety.

"So where do we go from here?" she said abruptly.

"I should think that choice is up to you."

She gathered her hair in one hand, pulling it back over her shoulder. "Is it? Because I don't think I can take another...I can't take you disappearing again."

"Nor could I," he said softly, and she felt the sudden anger dissipate

"What do you want, Erik? Because I've never really known. You're good about choosing for me, but what about yourself? What do _you_ want?"

"I think you know," he said, his eyes intent on hers.

"I need to hear you say it."

He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them, resigned, without guile. "I want you, Christine Daae. I always have. I want you in every way a man wants a woman. I need you. With me, beside me. I need you," he answered softly.

Her eyes filled with tears. "I need you too, Erik." He took a hesitant step toward her, and then she was in his arms.

Her lips were soft, as he had remembered them all these years, and yet he was lost, unable to move as he had been long ago. She laid her hand against his chest, slanting her mouth to reach his thin lips below the mask. Erik's arms tightened about her, molding her softness to his body, reveling in the feel of this woman in his arms again. The scent she wore flooded his nostrils, her warmth and the sweet pressure of her breasts against his chest sent his heart racing. Erik moved his lips against hers, learning, seeking.

She pulled back and Erik reached for her blindly, tucking her head against his shoulder. Christine smoothed his damp shirt beneath her fingers, listening to the pounding of his heart. Slowly she reached up, stroking his lined face, tracing fingers over his brow ridge, around to his temple and down across his jaw, then traced his thin lips with her thumb. She cradled his head in her hands, kissing him gently again, and left one hand against the flesh he kept hidden.

He caught her hand, holding it still. "No, Christine."

"Please," she whispered. "Let me see you."

He shook his head, still holding her hand. "Nothing has changed, Christine. I am still not a handsome man."

"That has never mattered, to me. It doesn't matter now, Erik. We're both different people than we were then."

Slowly his hand dropped, and she untied the knot of fabric, his wretched eyes never leaving her face, watching and waiting for the first sign of revulsion.

Gently she unwound the last of the strips and lifted the linen from his skin. The cloth was padded, skillfully sewn and molded to give the appearance of normal flesh beneath. Slowly Christine raised her eyes to his ravaged face. Time had not altered her memories; the flesh stretched and twisted, scarred and discolored, pulling his mouth and eyelid askew over the deformed cheekbone and skull.

Erik flushed and turned away from her scrutiny but stopped when he felt her hand, lying on his chest, move up to curl around the back of his neck again, pulling him down. Soft lips brushed his and he pulled her to him tightly with a choked gasp that became a sob and his arms tightened about her convulsively.

"Oh Christine," he whispered. "How can you…"

"Hush," she said softly. "You're just you…it doesn't matter." Her smile twisted awry. "We're none of us young anymore. I'm…I'm not the girl you remember, either."

Gravely, he looked at her, an intense stare that left Christine flushed and turning away, uncomfortable. He pulled her hands together and up, kissing her fingers. "I see the woman I have loved for the better part of thirty-five years. Who was the first to show me compassion and gentleness, who gave me her soul when she sang, and freed my soul from the hell that was my life. Who looks on me without fear or revulsion. Oh Christine," his voice caught. "I see only you."

He knelt before her, thin, scarred, weary.

"All of my life I have been selfish, my dear. I focused on what I wanted and never asked leave of anyone. But now I must ask…what is it that _you_ want, Christine?" he said softly.

Silence settled across the room, heavy and thick. "I think…I would like to travel again," she answered slowly. There is so much of the world that I have not seen."

"Much of it is dark and cruel, Christine. Human nature is very little different, no matter where you are."

But that had not been her complete answer. It was this golden-eyed man she wanted now, with his haunted face and battered heart and musician's hands. She stepped toward him, looking up into his weary eyes. "Then show me the parts of it that aren't. Show me the mountains and the valleys, the rivers and the oceans. Show me the great cathedrals and the opera houses. I have longed to see them…and I would be content to see them with you."

He wrenched himself from her grasp and walked to the window, fists clenched and shoulders bent.

Christine followed, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaned her cheek against his back, brushing the satin of his waistcoat. She felt him stiffen, then imperceptibly relax. Erik turned and pulled her into his arms, crushing her head against his chest and looking beyond her, out the window.

"Christine," he said quietly. "I am not a good man. I have done so many things in my life that I regret now, and many that I do not. I have been alone all of my life, and for most of that time I reveled in it. But I would not be alone any more. I do not even know exactly how old I am, but I would spend my remaining years with you. That is," he said humbly, "if you would have me."

In answer she raised her face to his, looking into his hesitant, golden eyes and raising one hand to stroke his thin hair. "Yes," she whispered, "if you will have me."

Salt tears mingled with the sweetness of her answering kiss. Outside the window, the winds had shifted, coming from the south, a gentle breeze. The clouds sighed and warm rain began to fall across Paris.

Spring had come at last.

* * *

.

Thank you for reading DSaF. It's been a delight to create and I hope you've enjoyed it. This is truly the end, though there may be a deleted scene show up in the _Scrapbook_ one of these days.

Please leave a review or comment, even if you're reading this years from now. They make my day!


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